


In a Field of Blood and Stone

by ScribeofArda



Series: We Can Make It If We Run [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action, Battle of Five Armies, Because I'm still sore over that, But a lot of elves, Canon-Compliant Battle of Five Armies, Canonic to book, Canonical Character Death, Elven PoV of Battle of the Five Armies, Gen, Light Angst, Literally elven pov the entire time, Not many Dwarves, With some Bard and Gandalf PoV, because it's massive spoilers, but nobody dies who doesn't already die, oh yeah, some mildly upsetting stuff that's difficult to tag for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-05-23 01:26:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 112,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6100306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeofArda/pseuds/ScribeofArda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So apparently this is what happens when you can't let go of a grudge and are still a little bitter over The Hobbit movies.</p><p>The Battle of the Five Armies, according to the book, from the point of view of the Elves.<br/>Now complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fires on the Horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of it all: Smaug destroys Laketown, and the elves begin to gather their army.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! This is going to be a long story- it's been in the works ever since I saw the final Hobbit film, because as much as I love PJ, there were some things in that film I was not happy with. So this is me fixing it for myself. I firmly refuse to believe that Thranduil is anything but a good person, for example.  
> Anyway. Elven PoV here, so very few Dwarves, and this will take a few chapters to really get going. This story got very complicated very quickly. I hope you enjoy.

"Legolas."

There was a hand grasping his shoulder.

"Legolas, wake up."

Legolas jolted awake, and even as he woke he rolled sideways, his hand reaching for the knives he knew he kept next to him. A hand grabbed his wrist, and he lashed out with the other. There was a muffled grunt, and then a string of Silvan curses that made Legolas stop and fully come awake. Orcs didn't speak Elvish.

He blinked, and then frowned at the sight of his second in command leaning over the edge of the bed, still holding onto his wrist. Legolas shook his hand free and sat up.

"What is it?"

"We need to go," said Belhadron. "Something's gone wrong." He picked up Legolas' hunting tunic from where Legolas had left it hanging over a chair a few hours ago and flung it at the blond elf, rubbing with one hand at his cheek where Legolas' hand had made contact. Legolas swung his legs to sit on the edge of the bed and pulled the tunic on with a frown.

"What is it?" he asked. "What's happened?" He didn't apologise for the hit, because Belhadron had done the same to him before, and it was something many of the warriors were used to.

Belhadron's face was grim. "I just came in from the eastern side of the stronghold. It's better to see it," he said. "But there's trouble in Esgaroth. Maybe something to do with Erebor."

Legolas took a moment to take the information in, and then cursed, jumping to his feet. "Where's my quiver?" he said, looking around the room and snatching up his boots, easily slipping them onto his feet. He couldn't be bothered to change out of the soft leggings he had been sleeping in, and he doubted he had time, anyway.

Belhadron picked it up from where it was sitting on the chair. "I moved it before I woke you," he said, handing it over. "I didn't particularly want you getting hold of your knives when this is our first night back in the stronghold." Both of them woke, as did many elves, a little violently after spending too much time in the dark southern areas of Mirkwood.

Legolas nodded and took the quiver, swiftly strapping it on with deft fingers. He hardly paid attention to doing it, instead turning to Belhadron. "What were you doing on the eastern side of the stronghold?" he asked. "We only got back this morning."

Belhadron shrugged. "I wasn't tired," he said. That wasn't the whole truth, and Legolas knew it, but there were more pressing things at hand. Legolas finished buckling on his quiver and nodded at Belhadron. "Let's go," he said.

Instead of heading towards his door, he moved across the room and pulled open one of the balcony doors. A gust of cold wind spiralled inside, for winter was beginning to creep over the woods. Belhadron said nothing, merely following him, and the two elves disappeared from sight as they vaulted over the stone railing and into the woods.

0-o-0-o-0

They moved swiftly through the trees, dropping down to the ground when the woods were too sparse, until they were high up on the eastern edge of the stronghold, balancing in the branches. They weren't too far from the edge of Mirkwood, and the sky was clear. Legolas sucked in a breath.

"Elbereth," he murmured.

"I know," said Belhadron. "I don't want to say it, but…"

"Smaug?" asked Legolas. "I don't think it can be anything else." His gaze returned to the horizon. From how far up they were they could see the glint of Andnen, that the men called the Long Lake.

It was glinting orange. With their eyesight, both elves could see the glow of fire that was spreading across the lake, engulfing Esgaroth. Legolas cursed under his breath, watching as something in the distance flickered a deep red.

For a few minutes they were still, watching. The word had spread, and a few more elves joined them high up in adjacent branches. The woods were quiet as they watched.

Legolas shook himself, and jumped down a branch, the spell of the flickering orange light broken. "I must find my father," he said quickly. "Inform him of what is going on. We're going to…" He paused, briefly looking up. "This is going to be bad."

"I know," said Belhadron. "I will start mobilising people, just in case. Leave the other captains to me. Go to the King." Legolas nodded, and jumped down from the tree, sliding from branch to branch until hitting the forest floor with a slight thud. Other elves were beginning to arrive through the woods now, joining the few up in the branches already.

He turned back briefly, but the view was no longer visible through the tangle of dark trees that even his eyes had a hard time distinguishing. He sighed softly, turning and running for the nearest stronghold entrance.

There was a hint of anticipation in the air as Legolas passed swiftly through the corridors. The stronghold was beginning to come awake, though it was never wholly silent, even in the middle of the night. But Legolas, who knew his home well, could feel the tension beginning to seep into the air, the elves that were beginning to move through the corridors as the word spread.

He knew that once Belhadron woke the other captains and briefed them then the realm would wake rather quickly. He supposed it was one of the advantages of being perpetually at war, perpetually on their guard. When something did happen, it did not take them long to be prepared for it.

The tension grew somewhat less as Legolas opened the large doors that led to the private living quarters of the King, himself and any guests of enough importance to warrant such rooms, such as Gandalf whenever he turned up. The two guards on the doors looked a little surprised to see him, and Legolas realised that they had not seen him leaving through these doors.

They must be new, he thought absentmindedly as he nodded at them and slipped through the doors. Whoever ended up with the necessity of guarding those doors learnt relatively soon that the balcony was just as viable an option as doors, especially if his second Belhadron had been seen entering the quarters.

Thranduil was in his study, and looked up as Legolas entered. He put aside the book he hadn't been reading. He knew something was wrong; he hadn't been King all these long, long years without developing finely tuned instincts. "What is it?"

Legolas' face was grim. "We have a situation," he said. "I'm not sure, and we don't have enough information yet, but from what I saw from the eastern side of the stronghold-"

"Legolas," said Thranduil, standing up. "What has happened?"

Legolas shook his head slightly. "Smaug has happened, I think," he said. "Belhadron woke me to confirm what he thought. He's briefing the other captains as we speak. We cannot be sure, but it appears that Smaug is awake."

Thranduil nodded. "Then we must be ready," he said. "Summon the guards. We have work to do."

0-o-0-o-0

In a couple of hours, the stronghold was awake. Thranduil had summoned his councillors, and had spent most of that time behind closed doors with them. Orders were issued every so often, and over the early hours of the morning, whilst orange light still glinted in the east, elves were recalled from the eastern settlements to the stronghold, and a watch was set on Esgaroth and Erebor.

Legolas held back a sigh from where he was sat with the rest of the captains, awaiting more orders. "Do we actually have any information?" he asked.

"We do not," replied one of the captains with a weary smile. "It cannot be anything other than Smaug, that we know, but if it is, then we do not know what he is doing, or why he has awoken."

"It was most likely the Dwarves," said another elf with the barest hint of a smile. "They should have remained our prisoners. It would have ended better for them." None of the elves wished them dead, though they may not like them much. They still did not know how the party had managed to escape, and many were still disgruntled about it.

Belhadron had only found this out when he, Legolas and their scouting party had returned from the south this morning. He just thought it was hilarious.

"What patrols are still to come in tonight?" asked Legolas, shifting through the pieces of parchment on the table in front of them to try and find the one with the current patrol rotations written down. A map of Erebor and the surrounding lands slid off the table with a hiss of old parchment against wood. Belhadron caught it just before it hit the floor, setting it back on the table.

"One more from the west," replied a captain, finding the piece of paper they were looking for. "And of course our spies are out around the lake, their captain with them. But the patrol is due soon. We can begin to gather the army now, or at least begin to put such measures in place."

"Is that necessary?" asked another elf, leaning forwards and resting his elbows on the table. Legolas looked up.

"If Smaug becomes bored of Esgaroth and Erebor, where do you think he will turn next?" he asked softly. "Besides, those were the most recent orders issued." The elf inclined his head, and for a few moments the room was silent, the crackling of logs in the fire the only noise.

Belhadron looked up from where he was standing behind Legolas' chair, one hand absent-mindedly ruffling the fur of the dog at his side. "But look at our history," he said. "Elven history, I mean. In all of our tales, all of our songs, when has an elf ever managed to slay a dragon? And that was with all the might of the Eldar days. We're not exactly the paragon of elven might here." There were a few chuckles around the table.

Legolas tilted his head back so he could see Belhadron. "That doesn't mean we shouldn't try."

Belhadron inclined his head. "That wasn't exactly what I said," he said with a dry smile. His hand had stilled, and the dog at his side whined, butting its head against Belhadron's leg. Those around the table chuckled as Belhadron crouched down to pay the dog more attention, and promptly had the dog half crawl into his lap.

Soon enough, though, Belhadron had pushed the dog off with a quiet admonishment, and the attention turned back to each other. Legolas sighed slightly. "We might as well begin," he said. "We can sort out the final patrol when they come in. Anyway, something tells me that we might need our army before this is all over."

They could all tell something was coming. Nobody knew what, yet, and it was doubtful that any of those captains sitting in that room could have guessed what was truly going to come. What was going to come to pass was not foreseen by many at all, save for perhaps Gandalf.

But even if they had known, they probably would have faced it the same way: the weary determination of those who had seen more fighting than they could really remember anymore. After so many long years, battles seem to blur, and the only distinction is how many were left dead behind them. But by that reckoning they all seemed to know that whatever was coming, they would remember it well.

0-o-0-o-0

The birds brought the news in the early hours of the morning. Smaug was dead.

The word spread like wildfire, only it left confusion and wariness, not ash, in its wake. Speaking with those birds who still loved the elves was not always exact, and there was still little news on who had brought down Smaug, or what damage had been done to Esgaroth and Erebor. The captains had mobilised at least part of the army, those they could take without leaving their realm undefended, but now nobody knew whether they were to be needed or not.

Legolas sighed slightly from where he was leaning over the same table he had been sat at for most of the night with the other captains. He shifted a few pieces of parchment around. "Do we have sufficient supplies sorted?"

"We have foods and such supplies for marching," replied one of the captains with a groan. "But we are not exactly used to having to prepare for camping on open ground, and nobody seems to know what has happened to the shelter stored. They're looking now. Any aid we must provide for Esgaroth has not yet been considered."

"And we don't even know if they need aid, or if they need more than we could provide," said another captain. He sighed. "At least we do not have to attempt to fight a dragon."

There were strained chuckles around the table. All of the captains and commanders knew that the fall of Smaug was a good thing for their realm. It was just a little hard to accept it. By now they were so used to bad news that something that appeared to be good news was always taken suspiciously, just in case it turned out to be yet more bad news after all. A lifetime of hard battles had made the elves of Mirkwood rather unwilling to acknowledge good tidings.

"I think if Smaug had not touched Esgaroth, then we would be in a far worse predicament that we are now," pointed out Legolas. "After all, it was most likely a man who brought the dragon down. Set aside some supplies for Esgaroth, but we will not march with them. If needs must, we can always send it down the river."

He sighed. Truthfully, none of them knew what to expect. Esgaroth may be completely obliterated, or it may still be mostly standing, protected by the lake. The number of the dead could reach into the thousands, or could only be a few whose luck did not hold out. And they had no way of knowing.

The dog, that had not left the room much, padded over and dropped his head onto Legolas' lap, perhaps sensing the apprehension in the room. Legolas scratched his ears as he flicked through a few pieces of parchment in front of him.

"Are we taking the dogs?" someone asked. One of the others shrugged.

"I don't think Umor will let himself be left behind," she said with a wry smile. The dog at Legolas' side pricked his ears upon hearing his name. "If we have to establish a camp in the open, then they will be useful."

"Legolas."

The voice came from the door, and Legolas looked up to see Belhadron leaning against the ornate doorway. Umor trotted over, sniffing at Belhadron's hands before slumping down on the carpet. Belhadron briefly smiled at the dog.

"You are wanted," he said, looking back up to Legolas. "Something with your archers, I think." He smiled wryly, but with the weariness and worry clouding his face it looked more like a grimace. Elves of Mirkwood were used to dealing with orcs and spiders and the shadow of Dol Guldur constantly looming over them. They were not so used to dragons and doom.

"I will come," said Legolas, standing from the table. A few captains passed messages to him to take elsewhere, and with a weary sigh from Legolas, the two elves left the room.

0-o-0-o-0

The day wore on. Spies that Thranduil had sent out to the Long Lake and beyond started to return, bringing reports of Dwarves and destruction on wings. Their captain herself was the last one in, late in the afternoon, and she was only in the stronghold long enough to speak with Thranduil, and then briefly with the other captains, before she departed once more. She and some of her spies were to move ahead of the army, meeting them eventually outside Erebor. There wasn't such a thing, in this case, as being too careful.

Elves gathered, and companies slowly coalesced into an army. Weapons, spears and swords and bows and more, were sharpened to deadly edges that glinted in the dull light. Armour that was seldom worn, too cumbersome amongst trees, was found again. Those few who had worn it before did not resent the burnished metal, but they still held back sighs upon first putting it on. A tool that could save their lives could still be dreaded.

They would march when the sun first rose in the sky the next day. Though the army was mostly assembled by nightfall, even elves did not march too well in the dark. They could, of course, if they had to, but it was not as if they were marching into an actual battle.

Actually, nobody was sure what it was they were marching to. The captains had questioned it amongst themselves, for surely there was no more threat now that Smaug was dead. But they had only briefly spoken when they were on their own, before returning to their tasks with the ominous feeling that things had only just been set in motion.

They all knew that their King was thinking of the now unguarded hoard in Erebor. They all knew of that particular weakness, if it was not much discussed. But they were wood elves, and were intrinsically tied to the world around them. There was more than gold at play here.

Legolas toyed idly with a roll of bread. It was fully dark outside now, even the stars obscured by a thick cloud that had rolled in sometime during the day.

"Legolas, either eat it or put it back on your plate."

Legolas glanced up, and smiled softly. "Sorry, _Adar_ ," he said, putting the roll down. Thranduil shook his head with a fond smile, picking up his goblet and taking a sip of the wine.

This was a rarity in itself, even more so given their march to Erebor tomorrow. The moments where neither Thranduil nor Legolas wore their titles were becoming few and far between, and as such snatched times such as these were precious.

Thranduil sighed slightly as Legolas, without thinking, began to circle one finger around the rim of his wine glass. "What is it on your mind?"

There was silence for a moment, and then Legolas looked up. "Smaug is dead," he said. "And with him, most of the threat we have ever faced from the east. Forgive me, _Adar_ , but I cannot see the reason why…we must be so prepared. There is nothing much in Erebor save what treasure lies there."

Thranduil sat back in his chair. "You are right in that there is nothing of threat in Erebor apart from the hoard of gold and jewels. The Dwarves are most likely dead, if they reached there. I don't doubt Thorin Oakenshield would have rather died in that mountain then leave it again."

Legolas looked up in surprise, and Thranduil chuckled. "It has been many years for him, but I can still recognise the grandson of Thror. You might have too, if you had been here whilst they were prisoner. I never liked Thror much, and I saw no reason to admire Thorin, but it is still a pity that he is dead, and cannot now reclaim what belongs to him."

Thranduil took a sip of his wine, and continued. "I would be a fool to not be considering the hoard that Smaug has left behind, I think. It is open and unguarded now, and there is no such thing as too much wealth for a realm." He didn't say more, but Legolas caught the edge of wistfulness in his voice at the thought of jewels, silver and white gems. Thranduil had not forgotten the wealth of Thingol and his realm in the First Age, the power that the Silmarils had wrought.

He realised that he had been silent for a few moments, and Legolas was looking at him curiously. He shook his head. "But we must be there first. The news of Smaug's death will spread to the Iron Hills, and Dain and his Dwarves will make a move for Erebor, and then we will lose what power we have over the lands outside of our own."

Legolas inclined his head slightly, but Thranduil could see the hesitation on his face. "Forgive me again, _Adar_ ," he said. "But I cannot think that those are the only reasons we are marching to Erebor."

Thranduil's face was, for a moment, unreadable. He abruptly stood up and crossed to the window, pulling back one of the shutters and looking out. After a moment of confusion, Legolas got to his feet and joined him.

"Look out there," Thranduil said, his voice soft. It was close to pitch black outside, but there was enough light spilling from the various windows of the stronghold for elven eyes to pick out indistinct shapes. Thranduil pressed his lips together before speaking.

"On every side bar one, we are surrounded. Dol Guldur in the South, Mount Gundabad to the north of us, the goblins in the Hithaeglir. Lothlorien is too far south to expect help from them at any stage."

Thranduil gestured out the window again. "The east is weak, and it may come to it that it is more than other Dwarves who march for Erebor. We cannot be surrounded from all sides." He sighed once more, and looked out of the window.

"Look out there, and tell me that there is not something coming."

For a brief second there was only the sound of the fire in the hearth, and then Legolas sighed softly. "Do you know what?" he asked.

"Not for certain," replied Thranduil. "Mithrandir may, if he ever shows up, but I can only guess." He sighed. "But I am guessing war, or a battle at the very least. And that is why you have over three thousand elves ready to march when the sun rises. I would rather be well prepared for the worst, than sit back and wish for the best outcome."

Legolas nodded, watching out of the window. "Then we will be prepared," he said. "And if it comes to the worst, then it comes to it."

Thranduil smiled ever so slightly, but it was tinged with grief. Not for the first time, the pang of guilt made itself known again. He had done this to his son, to his child. Oh, the state of their realm had forced his hand, but he was the one who had first set a bow in Legolas' hand. He was the one who had raised his son in a realm of war.

He knew how futile it was to wish it were otherwise, but sometimes he did. Sometimes Thranduil futilely hoped that Legolas could have lived without risking his life so much, without the constant presence of shadow and danger that surrounded Mirkwood now. Usually these more despondent thoughts came unbidden when Legolas was away from the stronghold and there was no news, or more often if the realm had once again demanded something more from him, and he was lying in the healing wards. But Thranduil could tell that they were approaching even more desolate times, and with instincts long since fed by the shadow spreading from Dol Guldur and Mordor, he knew that events that had started with the death of Smaug were only just beginning to truly unfold.

Legolas turned away from the window, and that broke Thranduil out of his thoughts. "I have something for you," he said, moving across the room and kneeling down beside an open chest. Legolas came to look over his shoulder as Thranduil pulled something out that glinted in the firelight.

Thranduil handed it to Legolas, who looked at him in surprise. "This is mine?" he asked.

Thranduil smiled softly. "I had it made a while ago, but there has never been a need for you to wear it. Armour is hardly the most useful thing amongst trees."

Legolas held it up with a small smile. A thick leather jerkin, almost a coat, was gripped in his hands. Overlapping metal plates lay across the entire torso, intricate chainmail down the arms and inside the leather itself. There were separate plates that, when put on, would sit across Legolas' shoulders and the top of his chest. The collar stood up, encircling and protecting the neck. When Legolas turned it over in his hands, he found the vambraces already sewn into the inside of the forearms.

" _Hannon le, Adar_ ," he said softly. "It is beautiful armour."

"It will keep you safe," replied Thranduil. "At least, I hope it will." He sighed, and took the armour back, laying it on top of the chest. He turned to Legolas.

"Promise me that in the days to come you will stay safe," he said softly. His hands came to rest on either side of Legolas' face, and any doubts Legolas had that what was to come was less than they were preparing for vanished when he saw the look on his father's face.

Legolas smiled ever so slightly. "You know I cannot promise you that, _Adar_ ," he replied. "I will not sit back if it comes to a battle."

"And I would not ask you to," replied Thranduil. How he wished he could, but he could not be that selfish. He would not do that to his son, though he still felt that pang of guilt at Legolas being so ready to risk his life for his realm.

He sighed, and Legolas smiled again. "I promise that I will try," he said. "But not at the cost of other people's lives."

"And that is all that I can ask of you, _ion_ ," Thranduil said softly. He rested his forehead against Legolas', and his golden hair slipped forwards over his shoulders. Legolas' hair was for once unbraided and loose around his shoulders, and the slightly darker golden colour mingled with Thranduil's silver blond hair.

Thranduil pulled back and the moment passed, the two elves becoming King and Prince once more. "We will march as soon as the Sun first rises," he said. "I want us to be at the edge of the realm by midday, if not sooner. It has already been a day since Smaug fell, and pieces are beginning to be played. We must make our move."

Legolas nodded, pulling away and picking up his armour. The steel plates shifted underneath his hands, and the armour almost rippled, glinting in the orange firelight. "We will be ready," he said.

Thranduil nodded. "Make sure we are," he said, and Legolas nodded once more, promising he would see to it. With a final smile, from a son to a father, he slipped out of the door.

Thranduil watched him go, and he could not help wonder how long it was that the Woodland Realm could hang on for before the darkness overwhelmed them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be posting a chapter twice a week- one on Wednesday, one on Saturday, so next one will be along soon enough. Thanks for reading.


	2. Marching Without a War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Elves march to Erebor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I suck at summaries.

The army marched as the Sun rose. More than three thousand elves left the stronghold, their King riding in front. The amplified sound of many elven footfalls, whilst far quieter than a mortal army, could still be heard through the woods, and many creatures came to see them march.

Already carrion birds were gathering overhead, having flown up from the south and from the mountains. They flew above the boughs of the trees, not yet willing to enter the woods so close to the elven stronghold. They would not be welcome.

They did indeed reach the edge of the forest by midday, and the shadows of the army were short as they briefly halted on the nearly bare grounds on the edge of Mirkwood. There was a brisk wind that was sending the banners flapping, for it was nearing winter. Soon, the first snows would be dusting this land, and at least there would be some beauty in the view again.

At the edge of the forest, Thranduil briefly paused, his large stallion coming abruptly to a halt. It was only Legolas, who was beside his father, who saw why.

A large white stag was just visible through the dense trees, watching silently. Thranduil bowed his head, and the stag, after what seemed like a moment's consideration, bowed back, the great antlers on his head tilting down. Thranduil held his gaze for a moment longer, and then the white stag turned and drifted back into the forest.

Thranduil nudged his heels into his stallion once more, and walked on again. He turned to Legolas. "The forest will be protected," was all he murmured.

The host marched northeast, along the once wide paved roads that had led to Erebor. In the hundreds of years since the Dwarves fled from Smaug, the roads had fallen into disrepair, and Thranduil's host actually walked to one side of the cracked stones for ease.

They only stopped when they were well into the night, and the moon became fully clouded by the clouds that were steadily thickening. They did not really bother with a camp, not when it wasn't raining and they were only staying in one place for a few hours. Elves were hardy, and they simply could not be bothered. Almost every elf, the ones who were not standing guard, merely slept on their cloaks, their packs under their heads.

Legolas lay on his back on his cloak, a spare one pillowed under his head. Though the ground was hard, it was hardly one of the worst places he had slept. Belhadron sat on the ground next to him, eyes flitting around their makeshift encampment. They were close to Thranduil, surrounded by some of the captains and a lot of guards.

Legolas sighed slightly. "There are at least fifty guards surrounding us, _mellon-nin_ ," he murmured, softly enough so that only Belhadron could hear him. "Along with about eight of our dogs, who you know will sense any intruder before us. You do not have to stand watch as well."

Belhadron hummed slightly, but Legolas could tell it wasn't in agreement. The dark haired elf straightened, looking around the area once more, before sighing and turning to Legolas.

"I don't like this," he said. "We're exposed."

"We are hardly undefended," said Legolas. "And it's only for a few hours. If what my father suspects is coming actually does come, you are going to need all the rest you can get."

Belhadron rolled his eyes. "You know that is close to meaningless," he said. "We're elves, and if I do not sleep tonight, it is not much matter."

Legolas rolled over with a sigh, and rested his head on one arm. "I do not like it either," he admitted softly. "You are right, we are exposed, but there is no shelter between here and Erebor, not unless we stray south into the marshes by the Forest River, which would be out of our way and pointless. This is what we have, and it is only for the night."

Belhadron grimaced. "Where are the trees?" he asked softly. "I'm not even sure when it was I last ventured outside our home, and not having boughs over my head is… unsettling. I don't like it."

"Shut your eyes, and pretend that you are home," said Legolas. Belhadron looked at him scathingly, and Legolas shrugged. "We're here. You know as well as I do that there's nothing we can do about it. If that means spending nights exposed like this, then we will bear it as usual."

Belhadron chuckled softly. "You are not very comforting," he murmured. "But then I should not have been expecting you to be."

Legolas smiled. "If you want comforting, then get Umor away from the guards and bring him over here," he said. He sighed. "But no, I am not going to be very useful. We all have a little too much weighing on our minds."

After a few more minutes of Belhadron sitting upright and glaring slightly at the guards around them, as if willing them to prove him right, he finally relented and lay back down on his cloak. He rolled over so he was facing Legolas.

Legolas was on his back again, his hands folded on his chest. Without looking over, he smiled slightly. "Go to sleep," he murmured softly. Belhadron chuckled, and rolled onto his back, his eyes beginning to unfocus.

Around them the makeshift camp, if it could even be called that, was quiet. The few noises were the rustling of the guards as they patrolled, and the carrion birds that were somewhere nearby, but elves were near silent when they slept, and Mirkwood elves in particular had become very good at not drawing attention through unnecessary noises.

After a few minutes, Belhadron blinked. "Legolas?" he murmured, looking up at the clouded sky.

Legolas blinked, focusing his eyes, and then sighed. "What did I ever do to be burdened with you?" he asked softly, though there was no ire to his voice. Belhadron chuckled softly.

"You were the one who appointed me your second," he said. There was humour in his voice, but it quickly vanished, and Legolas propped himself up so he could see his friend.

"What is it?" he asked, his voice no more than a whisper.

Belhadron looked over at him. "Do you know what it is we are marching into?" he asked. "Do you know what it is that is coming?"

"I do not," replied Legolas slowly. "Though I will admit that I think there is...something, something far greater than the hoard in Erebor that is to come."

"Does your father have any idea?" asked Belhadron softly, and it was that, not the dark haired elf's low voice, or his distant gaze, that alerted Legolas to the fact that his friend was worried. Belhadron very, very rarely asked Legolas what it was his father had imparted to him in private, and Legolas recognised the need to give a deserving answer.

"He cannot know for certain," he murmured slowly. "But he fears, as do I, that there is a battle approaching. Who with, we cannot be sure, but the events are far from over. My father knows that many will be drawn to the unguarded hoard in Erebor, but I think it will come to more than that. Why else would over three thousand of us be here at this moment?"

Belhadron nodded slowly. "Then we had best keep our weapons close," he murmured, and unconsciously his hand closed on the hilt of his sword at the same time that Legolas' crept towards his bow.

Legolas nodded, and lay back down again. "I imagine that whatever we face in the coming days, we have seen worse."

Belhadron chuckled humourlessly. "Somehow, that is not very comforting," he said. "But enough. The night is drawing on. You should sleep." Legolas refrained from rolling his eyes slightly, and this time as Belhadron sat up, once again taking watch, he did not comment.

His eyes unfocused and the night wore on as the elves slept in the darkness.

0-o-0-o-0

The host moved closer to Erebor, the makeshift camp packed before the Sun had risen. The elves were near silent as they marched, or as close to silent as an army could be. Nobody seemed to care much for talk, and even amongst the captains, there was little conversation. They could not plan until they knew what it was they were marching towards, and as the day dragged on, little more information found their way to them. Nevertheless, every elf was alert, just waiting for the inevitable that they had become so used to.

One of the captains was the first to spot the fast moving shapes in the distant, blurs even to elven eyes. They were coming from what was nearly the east, and heading to cut off the path of the elven army. The captain called out, and once Thranduil held up his hand, the army came to a halt.

The captains pushed their horses forwards as the blurred shapes appeared as men, riding hard. The horses were lathered with sweat, and even from the distance Legolas could see they were near the end of their endurance, and not just the horses.

They neared Thranduil, and instantly two guards moved to flank the King, their hands going to their swords. Belhadron, with a nudge of his heels against his mare's flanks, pushed his horse forwards so he was between Legolas and the men. Umor had been trotting beside his horse, but at a sharp whistle came up to stand in front of the horses, hackles slowly rising.

"My Lord!" one of the men cried out as they galloped up to the host. The captains moved forwards a little, tensing, but Thranduil raised his hand slightly and they stood down. Belhadron remained in front of Legolas' horse for a moment longer, until Legolas nodded at him, and then he allowed his mare to step back.

He whistled softly again, and Umor glanced back, looking confused, if a dog could. Another whistle, and the big dog stepped back into his place. Belhadron's attention turned back to the scene in front of them.

There were five men who pulled up to abrupt halts in front of Thranduil. They flung themselves off their panting horses, and Legolas frowned as he saw them, the dishevelled and ripped clothes, the dried blood down one side of one man's face, the dark stain covering another's leg.

"My King!" cried one of the men, falling to his knees in supplication. "Smaug-"

"Is dead," finished Thranduil. "The news has already reached us."

"We beg of whatever aid you can provide to us, my Lord," said another of the men. "We have…" He trailed off, and looked stricken. A third man took up the voice, that Legolas recognised as the voice of someone who had not, could not fully comprehend exactly what had happened.

There was not an absence of grief, as such. There had been grief in the voice of every man who had spoken, as there should be, given what Legolas suspected they had lost. But the grief was new, and strange, and it didn't yet sit right in their voices, like half of them hadn't worked out what it was yet.

"My Lord," said the man. "Please. We have lost nearly everything."

Thranduil glanced back at his captains briefly. Though they were all hardened warriors, had been fighting for many years, there was grief and a shadow across their faces, as well as any faces of those who were close enough to hear the exchange. It was one thing for they themselves, or anyone trained for war, to lose things. They were expecting it, in a way. It was a wholly different thing for those who were innocent of actions such as they took to also pay the price so heavily.

They knew it was the way of war, but this had not been war. This had been akin to a massacre, and even the elves of Mirkwood, hardened by what they had done over the long dark centuries, felt grief at such a thing.

Thranduil caught Legolas' eye, and his son nodded slightly. Behind him, Belhadron was watching Legolas carefully, though his gaze strayed to the men every so often. Thranduil nodded, and turned back to the men.

"What do you need?" he asked.

0-o-0-o-0

"They were not exaggerating," murmured Legolas softly. "They truly have lost almost everything."

His eyes flickered to the tent that had been quickly set up a little way away to offer shelter to the five exhausted men who had ridden to them. Again, most of the elves merely slept on the ground, but men were not as hardy, especially men who had just ridden nearly nonstop for two days to reach them.

Thranduil nodded slightly, following Legolas' gaze. "We will provide what we can," he said. "We cannot do otherwise. But it is up to them to remake themselves. In that, we must hope that this Bard is enough."

This had changed everything. He did not deny that he had set out from his realm with the intention of heading straight for Erebor, for the unguarded hoard there, but the news these men had brought was quickly changing his mind. He would not turn away from the helpless or value jewels over people, even if they were men. He had seen others do that, other elves, and the mistakes they had made had led to so much ruin. He would not see that history repeat itself, not if he had a say in it.

He turned to Legolas. "When we arrive, you are to speak to Bard," he said. "I am sure the Master will want to speak with me, make it appear as if he is in charge, but it is undoubtedly Bard who is doing most of the work, even if the men here say he does it all in the name of the Master."

"Anyway," Thranduil said. "We must find out what it is that is needed by the people of Esgaroth, and what danger is still left. Speak with Bard. Find out what is most required from us. Above all, you must find out who he is, whether men will follow him into battle."

Legolas nodded. "Are you expecting him to be anything more than just a man?" he asked. Thranduil held back a smile at the careful question.

"We shall see when we meet him," he said, his voice quiet. "But for our sakes, I hope that he is." Legolas raised one eyebrow, but said nothing more. He glanced over at the tent where the men were sleeping.

"They speak of him with reverence," said Legolas. "And they are right to, from what we have heard." He shook his head slightly. "No elf has ever defeated a dragon, not in any of our history."

"We have not," said Thranduil, a slight smile curving his lips. He sat back slightly. "We shall see soon enough," he said. "In the meantime, we must arrive as soon as we can. We will be moving by first light."

Legolas nodded. "That can be done," he said. "I will alert the other captains before they settle for the night." He glanced up at the night sky, wondering whether it would rain tonight or not. The clouds were gathering, and they had long since obscured the stars above, but it did not feel like rain, not yet.

Thranduil nodded. "See that you do," he said. "Whatever happens, I feel we must reach Erebor soon."

"We can reach Esgaroth in two days, I think," said Legolas. "At least, that is what the men estimated." He paused slightly. "We can reach the people of Esgaroth in two days," he amended. "Esgaroth hardly exists anymore."

"We will offer whatever we can without suffering ourselves," said Thranduil. "Supplies will be sent down the Forest River once the messengers reach home once more." Winter was fast approaching, and Thranduil knew that many of the people of Esgaroth would not survive the winter if they were left with no food, no shelter, and no help. But at the same time, he would not deplete their own stores too much, if their army were to sustain their borders through the colder months when there was little food within their own realm.

Legolas nodded, already knowing their movements. He recognised the detached voice of a commander from his father, and was so used to it that he did not even notice it.

It wasn't until much later, lying awake under the clouds with Belhadron distractedly prowling the perimeter of their encampment, Umor by his side, that the thought came unbidden to him. There had been grief for what had happened to the people of Esgaroth, for what Smaug had done to them. But ever so quickly, like they had been trained to, it was forced to fade, and the cool detachment of a soldier so easily returned.

It was a survival technique, Legolas supposed, just as Belhadron's restlessness was, or any one of the many habits they had all picked up over the long years. Most of the time they did not notice, but at times it would become more apparent, and a few of them at a time would recognise a faint view of what they had become, in order to survive.

Legolas grimaced, and shifted slightly. It seemed that Belhadron was not the only restless one, and he could sense the slight tension that was in the air, growing amongst the three thousand elves. His ears picked up gruff muttering from the nearby tent, and Legolas supposed that even the men would pick up on such tension, even if they did not realise it.

After a little while, Belhadron sat back down next to him, with Umor lying down with a huff nearby. Belhadron's hands absent-mindedly went to the straps holding his quiver on his back, over the leather and steel armour he was wearing. It was not wholly dissimilar to Legolas' own armour, if less intricate and detailed. Legolas reached up, and without speaking caught the quiver as the straps came undone.

Belhadron smiled slightly. "Did the King tell you anything new?" he asked, his voice soft.

"Nothing new," said Legolas. "But we cannot know exactly what is to be needed, what is to happen, until we arrive. And that won't be for another day or so."

Belhadron grimaced slightly. "Let's just hope there isn't another dragon," he said with a slight chuckle. Legolas looked at him exasperatedly.

"Do not tempt fate," he said, though his mouth twitched in a smile.

Belhadron laughed quietly. "Even with my bad luck, I am not sure that I can call another dragon down upon us." Part of him knew it was possibly a foolish thing to say, but by this point, fate to them was so obsolete that when Legolas mentioned it, as was what he himself was saying, it could only be a joke.

At this point, fate didn't seem to make much of a difference. They would fight for their realm, as always. They would protect and save whom they could, as always. They would possibly die quite soon, as always. Though fighting away from their home and trees felt strange, and none of them could shake the feeling of being exposed, ultimately it was all the same. Or, at least, they had been fighting for so long that it all looked the same.

"In all honesty, _mellon-nin_ ," said Legolas with a smile. "Your luck can be spectacularly bad sometimes. You merely have to mention the weather, and the rain will start and not stop for weeks. And I still blame you for that incident with the spiders."

Belhadron chuckled softly. "That was about four hundred years ago, or more, and it cannot be my fault that those spiders were there. I do not control their comings and goings in the realm." He looked pointedly at Legolas. "Just because I spoke of spiders, it does not mean that they were drawn to us because of that."

Legolas smiled, and for a brief moment his face looked young again in the gloom and glittering fire of the few torches around them. "You must admit that events such as that have occurred more than once," he pointed out.

"And we have been alive for centuries," replied Belhadron with a grin. "It is hardly my fault."

Both of them chuckled, and then fell silent. Belhadron sighed softly, and the smile fell from his face as he looked around, his sharp eyes making out the shapes of the camp around them in the dark. "I think that my bad luck, as you call it, will not need to do anything here."

A shiver ran down the length of Legolas' spine. "The dragon is dead," he murmured, though his voice held little reassurance. "We are heading to Esgaroth to lend our aid. There is less of a threat here in the East, not more. And yet you are right." He glanced around them again. "It feels like the clouds are only beginning to gather."

Belhadron nodded, and the silence this time was less comfortable. A guard passed around the inner perimeter, the area where Thranduil and the captains had made their camp. The King himself was a little way off, with two elves standing guard, one or two more on the tent where the men slept, more to give reassurance to them than actually protect from anything. All rational thought said that most danger was over. But then again, most of the elves here knew that rational thought was not always right.

"Get some sleep," said Legolas, glancing over at his second. "You've been patrolling the perimeter since nightfall. I will keep watch." As if to prove his point, he sat up straighter and pulled his own quiver closer to him, the ash handles of his knives resting within easy reach.

Belhadron nodded, and lay down on his cloak. "Don't cause any trouble when I am asleep," he murmured. "Or if you do, at least wake me up soon after." His voice was already softening with sleep as his eyes unfocused.

Though restless at times, both Legolas and Belhadron had found themselves with a useful knack of being able to fall instantly asleep, anywhere, as long as they felt safe. Safe was a relative term for them, of course. A camp like this may not end up feeling safe, exposed as they were. But they trusted each other enough that if one said they would remain on guard, then the other would be able to fall asleep.

Besides, Umor was also there, and he had been a hunting dog for the realm for too long for them not to trust his instincts. The captains had seemed to adopt him quite a while ago as their dog, which mainly meant that they spoilt him and he would stay in their common room more often than not, if he was not needed. Umor especially liked Belhadron, who had always had a liking for dogs.

Legolas chuckled softly as Belhadron shifted slightly to get comfortable. "I think by the end of this all, there will be plenty of trouble without my intervention. But I shall be sure to wake you up if there is."

"Good," breathed Belhadron, and then he fell asleep, curled slightly on one side. Legolas smiled softly, and sat back to keep watch on the night around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil's motivations- what he said about not valuing jewels and wealth over people- that all relates directly back to the First Age and the events towards the end of the War of the Silmarils. All of that is written in the Silmarillion. For those who haven't read it, firstly, give it a go because it is brilliant and greatly expands the world of Middle Earth, and secondly, the events relating to Thranduil will be explained later on in the story (quite later on, but there's a full explanation). It all gets a bit angsty, because the Silmarillion in general is TRAGIC.
> 
> Next chapter will come on Wednesday :)


	3. On the Lakeshore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bard is appearing now. He doesn't have a family yet in this story, in line with what is in the books (at least, what I took from them). Judging by the timeline for LOTR, he has plenty of time to have a family after the BoTFA. Adding in children would have made everything so much more confusing, and this story was already complicated enough. He's also a really difficult character to write! He's full of contradictions in the book, and so I had enough trouble trying to decide on his motivations and morals without children added into the equation.

"We've got no more food."

The words were softly uttered, as if by whispering them, then maybe it wouldn't be true. Bard didn't even bother sighing at this point. He had known that people would be speaking these words soon enough.

Still, his heart twisted as the young woman looked up at him, wrapping her tattered shawl that was actually some ripped piece of fabric salvaged from Esgaroth around her. "I know," he said. "But there's not much I can do about it. The winter is coming, and so our fields are useless. Kill all the cattle, and we will have none next year. The riders should be coming to the Elvenking now, and hopefully he will send aid."

"It won't be enough," she said to him, glancing behind her at the few shelters that they had, for the wounded, sick and children. Many were all of those three things, and already many had died. The only other shelter, a tent that had also been salvaged, sat apart. Inside the Master rested.

"The children need food," the woman continued, her voice hardening as she managed to distance herself from the facts. "Or they will fall ill. Some of them already are. And I don't think that the sick and injured will be able to get better now, unless they get food immediately."

Bard sighed. "I will see what I can do," he said. "I can ask around." His gaze drifted to the Master, and he wondered whether, along with that tent, he had kept anything else for himself. He probably had, but they were hanging by a thread as it were, and to upset things now by questioning him would probably only make it worse.

Besides, Bard didn't know who would stand beside him if he did. He had killed Smaug, and was doing most of the work now to help keep everyone alive and away from despair, but when whatever he did eventually failed, as it would if they could not get supplies and food and medicine and a thousand other things, he did not know who would still stand by him, and who would blame him for it all.

But in the meantime, he would do what he could.

For the next little while, as the sun rose ever so slowly in the sky, Bard moved around the camp, taking stock of what they had and what they needed. The first list was worryingly short, the second depressingly long. Nevertheless, Bard kept walking, redistributing meagre rations to where they were most needed. Six more people had died during the night, and Bard ordered able men to move the bodies and join those still waiting for a grave to be dug for them, if the dead could wait.

Someone cried out over on the eastern edge of what was only a camp in the sense that many people were grouped in one place, and immediately Bard turned towards the sound. He pushed through the rapidly materialising crowd towards where the commotion was coming from.

The murmur spread through the crowd, and Bard frowned as he recognised, instead of fear merely apprehension, and possibly some excitement and a little of relief. And then Bard saw the first glint of the army on the rise.

"The Elves!" someone nearby cried out. "The Elves have come!"

At the words more people came forwards, and soon the army was close enough to distinguish individual elves, though they were all dressed similarly in armour, greens and browns against the greys of the desolate land around them. At the head of the column rode a few elves, and Bard correctly guessed that these were the captains and commanders of the army they preceded.

In front rode the King, one of his blond captains riding close by his side. The Elvenking merely held up one hand, and the entire army of elves came to a halt outside their camp. Bard, along with the Master and others brave enough to do so, stepped forwards.

The captains and the King dismounted, and the Master stepped up as the elves walked forwards. Bard stood to one side, watching carefully. He didn't miss how the captains took in everything as they walked forwards, moving to flank their King. The blond one, one of the elves closest to their King, caught his eye. Bard raised his head slightly and kept his gaze steady. The elf held his gaze for a few seconds, before nodding slightly, and turning his gaze back to his King.

"They've come," one person murmured in his ear as the Elvenking Thranduil stopped in front of the Master. From what Bard could hear, the elves were indeed offering their aid.

Someone else clutched his arm. "We're saved," an old man said, his voice full of relief. "No more people have to die because of those Dwarves."

Bard nodded, and offered reassuring murmurs to those closest to him, but he himself could not let relief into his voice, not yet. The elves had indeed come to them, but they had also come with an army.

The Elvenking, Thranduil, turned around to view the steadily growing crowd gathering around them, and Bard felt people almost hold their breath, either in awe or worry of what he was going to say.

"We will lend you whatever aid we can," the Elvenking stated, and his clear voice carried far. Bard marvelled at the strength in his voice, and wondered when the last time was people of what had once been Esgaroth had heard such a voice. He wondered whether they had ever had such a leader since Girion perished as Dale fell around him.

The elves began to disperse a little, the captains separating a little and beginning, from what Bard saw, to assess what they needed. All around them people were of two minds, either reaching out with pleas for help, or merely watching with wide, silent eyes.

The blond captain made his way to Bard, stopping in front of him and inclining his head. "Bard?" he asked. "The Master identified you to us."

Bard nodded. "I am sure he did," he said, only slightly scathingly. "You are one of the Elvenking's captains?"

The blond elf nodded. "I suppose so," he said, though a slight smile quirked the corners of his lips. "My name is Legolas. What is it that you first need from us?"

Bard laughed bitterly. "You have not chanced to bring another town with you?" he asked. Legolas merely smiled, though Bard could not tell if the smile was from amusement or pity. He sighed, and shook his head. "Food is the priority at the moment."

Legolas nodded, and turned to one of the other elves behind him. In a flow of elvish, he spoke quickly with them, and then the others turned back to the army waiting on the edges. Legolas turned back to Bard.

"Food will be given out," he said. "As much as we can spare at the moment. Upon meeting your messengers, we sent our own back home, and supplies are being sent down the river to us. There will be ample food and supplies within a day or two. What else do you need?"

Bard ran one hand through his hair. "Shelter," he said. "Especially for the young, the old and the sick and wounded. If you have people skilled in the healing arts, that is something we could not deny. Though many of those who were badly wounded, or fell seriously ill, are already dead." He let out a strangled, bitter laugh. "I suppose we need people to dig more graves."

Legolas merely nodded. "We can see it done," he said. His voice was only sincere, and almost instantly he turned and relayed the information to one of the other elves around him.

Bard finally allowed relief to flood through him, and he sighed deeply. "We will be in your debt," he said. "What can we do to repay you?"

Legolas huffed a laugh, and some of that mysterious air surrounding him vanished at the sound. "That is a question better suited to my King," he said. "But I think that you, Bard, are the least in our debt." Bard frowned, and Legolas elaborated.

"You are the one who brought down Smaug," the elf said. "The one who has lessened the threat in the east to all of us. We are merely repaying your courage."

Bard did not quite know what to say, so he merely inclined his head to Legolas, hoping it showed his gratitude for all they were doing. The Elvenking had a reputation of being made of stone, cold and immovable, but apparently a massacre such as this was enough to reach him.

Legolas seemed to almost be reading his thoughts, for he smiled lightly. "We would have done the same if Smaug had not fallen by your hand," he said. "No matter what darkness we have endured for centuries, it has not removed our capacity to feel grief."

Bard again said nothing. It was in some way strange to be walking beside a being that had lived for centuries, and may live for centuries more, if whatever was to come did not kill them all. He did not doubt that this captain, Legolas, had seen more than he ever would. Bard was not quite sure if he felt awe or pity at that.

"What has happened so far?" asked Legolas, and Bard began to explain what had happened since the Dwarves had first arrived in Laketown. At times Legolas interjected with some question, some clarification of the details, but for most of the time he was silent, listening to Bard and carefully watching the surroundings as they walked through the camp. Bard had no doubt he was compiling information for his King.

"We had some warning, and were able to get quite a few people out into the middle of the lake on boats, but even so, we lost many. And many more succumbed to illness in the cold nights afterwards, though they had been spared injury in the attack." Bard shook his head, and his gaze drifted south along the lake. Though the waters were dark, only a slight ripple from the chilled winter breeze, he could still tell with absolute certainty where Smaug had fallen, as if a dankness seeped from that area.

"The rest is fairly simple," he said. "We came ashore and salvaged as much as we could, and then moved north up here. We have been trying to treat the illnesses and injuries as well as we can, given our lack of supplies, and people have been surviving on whatever meagre food we salvaged or can find on these shores." He shrugged slightly. "And then you turned up."

Legolas nodded, and looked around. "It could have been worse," he said. The words stung, because to Bard it had been bad enough already. He had a retort on the tip of his tongue, but Legolas spoke again before he could.

"I know it is no comfort," he said. "For most elves here have had their fair share of tragedies, and though we have never had our home destroyed by a dragon, I know what it is to hear those words, and feel like they offer less than nothing. But you brought down Smaug, and because of it a large number of people are not dead. You saved a lot of people, Bard. And you can only rebuild from here. Remember that, when you look around and all you see is desolation."

0-o-0-o-0

Finally Legolas turned and began to walk back towards the northern edge of the camp, where tents had already begun to go up and the elven army had begun to set up their camp. Bard noticed that they had come to almost surround the men and women huddled on the side of the lake, and he didn't know whether to be grateful for the protection, or irritated because they had spent five days here already and had survived just fine so far.

"My King will want to speak to you," said Legolas as they made their way over, having stopped to speak to elves Bard thought he recognised as the other captains for a few minutes, their lyrical tongue washing over him and making precisely no sense. "As I believe that it is you who is in charge at the moment."

"I do everything in the name of the Master," said Bard automatically, but the words sounded old even to him, and he sighed. "I say that I am doing everything in the name of the Master. Honestly, I doubt the man has done anything since Esgaroth fell."

"I do not know him, and so I cannot say anything," replied Legolas. "My King may have his own opinions. But I think that you have done as well as anyone could have over the past few days, perhaps far better than some others." Bard nodded in thanks, and then they reached a tent set a little way apart from the others.

Two guards stood outside, a big dog sitting alert at the foot of one of them. It rose to its feet upon seeing Bard, but a slight movement from the elf had it sitting back down again. Both of them bowed their heads to Legolas, who nodded back. Legolas knocked on the tent post, and then pushed back the flap. He motioned for Bard to enter. He did so with trepidation.

"King Thranduil Oropherion of the Woodland Realm," Legolas announced as he stepped into the sparse tent behind Bard. Bard bowed low, ignoring the nerves that had set his heart beating a little more frantically.

The Elvenking stood, his golden hair swinging around his shoulders. His armour was discarded to one side, gleaming silver, but in a simple hunting tunic Thranduil looked no less intimidating. Bard noticed Legolas move to one side of the entrance to the tent and stand there, as if on guard.

"My Lord," said Bard, bowing once more. "Thank you for-"

Thranduil waved one hand. "I have heard enough of that from your supposed Master," he said. "And if you should thank us for our aid, then we should thank you for doing what no elf has ever done in all the Ages. You brought down Smaug, and in all of our history, even in the might of the Eldar days, we could not do that." Bard inclined his head in thanks.

Thranduil looked past him to Legolas. "What of the situation here?" he asked the captain.

Legolas stepped forwards. "Supplies are being distributed as best as we can, but we are waiting on those that have been sent down the river. They should arrive soon enough tomorrow. I have companies building temporary shelters. They can become more permanent if needed, at your judgement, Bard. The food is going mainly to the young, old and wounded, but those who are more able are still receiving a share. The healers are already with those who need them the most, but we have little experience of sickness."

"Have you healers of your own?" asked Thranduil of Bard. "We could use their knowledge in that matter."

Bard nodded. "We do," he said. "I can fetch them now." Thranduil shook his head.

"One of my captains will see to it," he replied. "Legolas." Legolas nodded, and briefly disappeared outside the tent. Bard heard the lyrical sounds of Elvish, and then Legolas ducked back inside.

"It is seen to," he said. "Do you want a scouting party out?"

"No," replied Thranduil. "Not for tonight. Focus our resources here. Ensure everyone has some sort of shelter and warmth by nightfall, and that they are adequately guarded." Legolas nodded, but at a slight gesture from Thranduil he made no move to leave the tent. Bard wondered at that, that Legolas knew his King so well that from the slightest of gestures he could tell his orders, but the thought soon slipped again from his mind.

"What of the Dwarves?" asked Thranduil. "You know that they came through my realm not so long ago, and that I had them imprisoned, and that they escaped and came to you." Bard shifted uncomfortably, and Thranduil continued, though Bard was sure he had noticed.

"I know that Thorin Oakenshield led that company," said Thranduil. "A few hundred years is little time to an elf, and I still remembered his face. I have heard that he continued onto Erebor from the Master, but his view is clouded, and I want to know what you thought. What did you think of Thorin Oakenshield and his company?"

Bard frowned. "He was determined to the point of obsession," he said. "Though his companions were less so. But there was no question that he was a King, even if he had no throne or crown. I do not doubt that he and his company have perished, though."

Thranduil nodded. "I do not believe Smaug would have abandoned the chance of killing Thorin Oakenshield to attack Esgaroth," he said. "The Dwarves will, unfortunately, have been killed. It is a pity that they will have died seeking what they have lost, and that Thorin will never have a chance to get his home back."

Bard couldn't stop himself from raising his eyebrows, but Thranduil said nothing of his expression. "Do you have everything you need?" he asked Bard. He took a seat on the edge of a crate, but it did not diminish the power radiating from him in any way.

Bard shrugged slightly, and then swiftly reminded himself never to do that again in front of the imposing Elvenking. "I believe so," he said. "We are not all incapacitated, though, and there are many who will lend their help to you." He did not say it, but he supposed Thranduil guessed the meaning behind his words anyway. There was still pride in him, amongst the people around them. They may have lost everything, but for Bard at least, that did not mean they were going to be fully defeated.

"How many men do you have who are able to fight?" asked Thranduil.

Bard frowned. "Maybe five hundred who are able to hold a weapon," he replied. "Less who actually know how to use one."

"Will they follow you?"

"I…I don't know," said Bard. "More readily than the Master, I suppose, but it is not something I would like to test." He paused, and found a courage within him. "It is not something I should have to test. We do not need an army now that the threat of Smaug has been removed." He paused once more.

"And yet every one of your elves, my Lord, is dressed for war." He glanced behind him to Legolas, standing there with a quiver and bow on his back, a knife at his side, as if to prove his point, before turning back to Thranduil.

"Why bring an army, my Lord?" he asked. "When there is nothing left to fight."

It was wrong to same that the temperature of the room changed, because of course it didn't, but part of Bard would have preferred that to the icy gaze of Thranduil. It was ancient, the gaze of a King who had seen great battles and watched the world for centuries, and Bard was only proud that he did not quail before it.

"I do not," said Thranduil slowly. "Have to justify my decisions or actions to anyone, not even you, Dragonslayer. Suffice it to say that I know what I am doing."

"I don't think that is enough," said Bard quietly. "An army has gathered around us, and nobody out there knows why. Oh, they are beyond grateful for your aid, my Lord, but soon someone will begin to ask why every elf is bearing armour and weapons. Those people out there need to know that they are safe, that there is no more to come."

Thranduil stood. "Who says that there is no more to come?" he asked, his voice cold. "What experience do you have of the world beyond Esgaroth, Bowman? What do you know of battles and wars?"

"Nothing," said Bard. "But I know when people are scared, when they have had too much torn from them already. They'll start asking questions, and even if they do not, in the end, I cannot put such questions aside. Not when this may endanger everyone here."

"Why?" asked Thranduil. "The Master has not asked me such questions, or demanded anything from me. What puts you above all those people?" At the mention of the Master Bard snorted in derision. From behind him there came a carefully concealed chuckle, but when Bard turned Legolas was merely standing there with the same impassive face.

Bard sighed in frustration. "Because apparently it looks like I am the one that they look to," he said, his voice growing a little heated despite his best efforts. "Because the Master has done little but sit in his tent since we pulled him from the lake, and most efforts have fallen to me." He pointed outside, to the tattered remnants of Esgaroth on the lakeshore, and his voice rose yet again. "Because those people out there, those who have lost nearly everything apart from their lives, need someone to speak for them, and it might as well be me!"

Thranduil said nothing for a moment, merely watching Bard with that cold gaze that seemed to strip the flesh away from Bard to reveal all of his thoughts underneath. Perhaps that was an exaggeration, but Bard felt, at the moment, that it was maybe apt.

And then in the next moment Thranduil's gaze changed, and the corners of his lips curved up what may have been a smile. "Very well then."

Bard blinked. "Very well?" he asked incredulously. Thranduil merely raised one eyebrow, and Bard decided, probably quite wisely, that he would never be able to understand the Elvenking, and so should just continue. "Then I repeat my question. Why bring an army, when the dragon is dead?"

Thranduil inclined his head slightly. "I think you know already," he said. "This is not the end. And I will not take chances with the safety of my people, nor would I abandon you to face whatever wrath will descend on you." Thranduil did not believe much in the race of men, had watched them fall over the years, but he still remembered the might of the armies of old. He remembered Elendil and Isildur, and Anarion, who everyone seemed to forget. Perhaps he owed it to them to see at least some of their race safe.

Sometimes a few of the Dunedain crossed over the Hithaeglir and were granted leave in his realm and halls, and in them Thranduil saw the eyes of ancient kings. Looking at Bard, the man looked similar, and some hidden thought grew in Thranduil's mind as he noticed. But he said nothing, and his gaze focused once more on the man in front of him.

"Is there anything else you need?" he asked, and Bard, seeing that as the dismissal that it was, shook his head.

"My thanks again, my Lord," he said, bowing his head. "I do not know how we can repay you for what you have done for us."

Thranduil waved one hand. "That does not have to be discussed now." The tone of his voice, however, made it fairly clear that the Elvenking wanted something in return for their aid. But Bard still felt relieved; he had never had these decisions asked of him before, and he was not sure what they had to offer to the elves, besides friendship.

Truthfully, he had no idea what he was doing, what he could do. And he didn't think it would be long before everyone realised it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm all for a very politically-minded Thranduil who has no problems with manipulating the situation and the people around him to get the outcomes he wants. Next chapter on Saturday.


	4. Impossible Payment

Dusk was beginning to fall now, and Bard was slightly surprised, though grateful, to see that large bonfires were ablaze throughout the camp. People gathered around them as the air turned colder. He looked over at Legolas, who was leading him through the camp. "Where did you get the wood?"

Legolas laughed, the merry sound causing a few tattered men nearby to look around in surprise at the sound. "There are three thousand elves at our disposal, and we have had a few hours. Gathering wood was not so much of a problem."

Bard smiled, but it was dampened by the weariness that was beginning to weigh even more heavily on him, now that he was not fully responsible for everyone and everything. He stumbled slightly, and Legolas briefly caught his arm. "I know that look," he said. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Last night," said Bard, and Legolas raised one eyebrow. "Some nights ago, I suppose. Rest is not something that has been a priority."

Legolas chuckled. "I know the feeling," he said. "But we have everything covered for the night. You are of no use to anyone half dead from exhaustion, if I may be honest."

Bard glanced over at Legolas with a weary smile. "You know that from experience, don't you?" he asked, and Legolas nodded with a laugh. Bard chuckled softly, but it was short lived.

They stopped in front of the front of a tent and Bard turned to Legolas. "Do you know what is coming?" he asked. The blond elf regarded him seriously, the mirth slipping from his face, and then he sighed and shook his head.

"No, but I fear it," he said. Bard looked surprised at those words, and a faint smile came across Legolas' face for a moment, before fading. "If you want your people to feel safe," he said, and Bard momentarily protested 'your people' in his head. "Then do not let them hear this, but the elves are afraid of what is to come. How could we not be? We have seen this before. Even if we have not been to battle outside our own borders for an Age, we have heard the tales. We know how this will end, in a way."

"And how will it end?" asked Bard.

Legolas looked steadily at him. "It will end with death, as all these things tend to do," he said. "It is unlikely to be your death, nor mine or my f-King's, but a lot of good people, a lot of both mine and your people, may be dead by the end of this. My King did not speak of this, because he is right in that you should not dwell on whatever uncertain future is ahead, but I feel like you should know the risk to your people. And even though you owe us a debt, do not think that means you must follow us to Erebor."

Bard squared his shoulders. "My thanks," he said softly. "I am grateful that you would think to tell me this, especially when your King has not. But I, and any man who is able, will go with you to Erebor. This was started without our knowledge, and we suffered for it. We will see it through to the end." Besides, everyone here did owe the elves a debt, and Bard would see it paid.

Legolas smiled. "Good," he said. "We would be honoured to have you ride with us." He nodded to Bard as he turned away. "Good night."

Bard nodded back, and ducked into his tent. It was small and sparse, but far better than anywhere he had slept in the past few nights. A voice began to sing outside, a voice far lovelier than any Bard had heard before, and he realised that the elves were beginning to sing, in their own rich tongue, as another voice joined in.

Before long a quiet, sweet melody rose above the camp, and Bard found himself falling swiftly asleep. Outside, the fires glowed a molten orange, their light casting sprawling shadows across the cold ground.

0-o-0-o-0

"He reminds me of someone."

Thranduil looked up as Legolas ducked back into the tent. The sky was nearly dark now, night falling quickly in northern winters, and the breeze from the tent flap sent the torches flickering inside. The light danced around the tent, playing on Thranduil's golden hair.

"He does," said Thranduil, frowning slightly. "I believe I have an idea, but…" He trailed off and shook his head. His gaze turned back to the parchments lying on his bed next to him. "I am awaiting further information." Without looking up at his son, he continued. "What do you think of him?"

"He could be a leader," replied Legolas. "He is a dependable man, and loyal to the people around him. He certainly stood up to you well enough." He smirked slightly. "Do you think he realises that you were testing him?"

Thranduil smiled, one corner of his mouth curving up. "Maybe," he said softly. "He appears to be fairly smart, I think. What else?"

"People move around him," said Legolas. "He kept a lot of them alive without much in the way of anything, be it food or shelter, and it shows. If he decides to lead, then they will follow. I do not think there is any question about that."

"If he decides?" asked Thranduil. He sighed. "He does not seem like a man who would be forced. If anything, that will serve him better in the times to come. Besides, I would not force him to march into a battle that both he, and his people, are woefully unprepared for."

Legolas shrugged, and reached across the crate to snag a piece of dried meat that had been left on a plate. "I think he will ride with us anyway," he said. "I doubt that he would follow us, as such, for when I used that word he purposefully repeated another. But he feels there is a debt to owe, which there is, and that he should do what he can to repay it. There is also pride at work, I believe, and I do not think he will suffer to not ride with us. In his words, he will see it through to the end."

Thranduil looked over. "And yet he still knows nothing of war. Did you tell him of the risk he might end up taking?"

Legolas nodded, and spoke around his mouthful. "He is skilled enough with a bow to bring down a dragon. Judging by the sword he had at his side, I would say he knows a blade as well." Legolas didn't know exactly how he knew this, but a warrior could tell another from a crowd in the way they stood, the way they watched everything around them, and he had picked out Bard fairly quickly.

"And yes, I told him," replied Legolas. "He seemed as determined to continue."

"What of Erebor?" asked Thranduil next. "He seemed to grieve the death of the Dwarves, in the sense that it was unfortunate they died, but there is some anger amongst people here. They blame Thorin Oakenshield and his company for Smaug's wrath."

"They are most likely dead," pointed out Legolas. "It hardly matters."

"I think it does," said Thranduil with a smile that contained little mirth. "People with anger they cannot direct will become difficult to control. We must reach Erebor soon, and learn for ourselves what has happened there. The question of treasure will undoubtedly arise, but no matter if others come to the mountain, there should be more than enough for Bard to rebuild Esgaroth, maybe even more." He grew quiet, and Legolas recognised the look of plans being drawn together in his father's mind.

"If others insist on accompanying us to Erebor, then Bard will lead them," said Legolas. "Of that I do not think there is little doubt. As to what he thinks once this has all ended, then I do not know. But he could make a strong leader."

Thranduil nodded, and his gaze turned back, distracted, to the maps. Legolas stood and smiled slightly, bidding his father goodnight, before turning to leave. There was a rustle of the tent flap as he ducked outside, and then it was quiet once more.

A voice took up in song outside somewhere, and a part of Thranduil's mind recognised the song, popular within his halls. But the most of his mind was focused on the days ahead, focused on the glimpses of what might come to pass.

He had always known that the shadow would not stay broken, had always known that eventually its keepers would fail, and the darkness would grow once more. And it seemed like the shadow had reached its furthest yet, and there was little sign of faltering.

He did not want to fight another battle. He did not want to continue this endless war, this perpetual bloodshed. He had tired of it long, long ago.

0-o-0-o-0

The day dawned cold, but clear, and the reflection of the morning sky danced off the surface of the lake. As Bard stepped out of his tent, he hardly knew that he was standing in the same camp anymore. Shelters had sprung up overnight, and it seemed that the elves had not even slept, for as Bard walked through the camp he saw that everyone was sleeping under some sort of shelter, and fires were only now beginning to burn low.

Some of the men were already up and moving, and one of them came up to Bard with a grin.

"I don't know what we're going to give these elves," he said, clasping Bard's shoulder in greeting. "But I will gladly hand it over! That King had his people up all night rigging up shelters for us, and keeping the fires going. We won't have lost anyone to the cold or to hunger, last night."

Bard smiled. "I am glad," he said. "Is your wife alright?"

"Aye, she's fine," replied the man. "She's been spared any sickness, though she's been working right with the ill and wounded. The elves have her teaching them about sickness." He shook his head. "Apparently they can't even get ill, the lucky-"

Bard cut his friend off before he could go into a friendly rant about elves. "I've spoken to the Elvenking," he said, and instantly the man was quiet and turned to him expectantly. Bard continued. "He has not yet said what payment he wants, but he doesn't merely want gratitude. I think they will be leaving soon enough. I, and anyone who is willing to bear a weapon, will accompany them."

The man frowned. "If you ask, everyone here will follow you, Bard. Maybe not the Master. But everyone else, without doubt." He paused. "Is there a need to bear weapons?"

"There may be," Bard replied. "I don't know what is coming, and I do not believe that even the Elvenking or his captains know for certain. But they seem to think that this is not the end of it all, and I am inclined to agree with them. Besides, there may be more people arriving to try and claim Erebor. The elves did not leave their halls with the intention of helping us, did they?"

"They're here now," said the other man. "And we will bear what weapons we have if we must, Bard. We will fight for what we have if we must."

Bard scoffed. "We have nothing," he said. "Our lives, and some scraps of what our homes used to be."

The man grinned and shook his head. "Good to know that even slaying a dragon has not changed you from that grim man," he said. "And you're probably right. But we can rebuild. Claim some of that treasure from Erebor, and rebuild. It's not like we can lose much more anyway."

Bard nodded, and the man filled him in on what was happening around the camp, what the elves had done and what still needed doing. It seemed that he had stayed up most of the night to check that they were indeed saved. After a while, Bard held up his hand.

"I think that is enough," he said, with an attempt at a smile. "I can find out the rest for myself." The man nodded and made to turn away, and Bard abruptly opened his mouth again.

"Make sure you get some rest," he said, and his voice was soft. "You've done well, but you need to look after yourself as well as everyone else here."

The man huffed in amusement. "You should be telling that to yourself," he said with a smile. "But aye, I will get some rest." He turned and walked off, moving through the camp towards some of the tents the elves had set up for them.

Bard sighed, and began walking slowly through the camp, watching the people move around him, listening to the talk. Most people were unsurprisingly grateful for the aid of the elves, though there were a few who were too prideful to accept it fully. Bard supposed that there were those people in any town, and it seemed as if the elves were enduring their barbed comments.

Bard was not sure how much of that was down to some of the elves not speaking their tongue, but either way, he was relieved nobody was making much of a fuss.

It must have been mid morning when Bard was told that a captain was looking for him. Not long after that, Legolas found him. "My King would like to see you," he said.

Bard nodded, and then looked up and saw the elf standing at Legolas' shoulder. He had dark eyes and darker hair, and though not dressed in armour, was wearing what looked like thick hunting clothes. A sword hung at his side, and one hand rested on top of it.

The next thing Bard noticed was the hunting dog. It was standing by this elf's side, easily reaching his hip. As Bard looked down the dog looked up, and his hackles raised ever so slightly. The elf put out one hand, and the dog subsided, still watching Bard. Bard looked away, and caught the elf's gaze. It was that expression, more than the elf's appearance, which unnerved him.

It was as if the elf was picking not only Bard, but also everything around them, apart and examining it, determining the weaknesses and potential threats and remembering it all. He nodded briefly at Bard, before his gaze passed around them once more, and Bard noticed how he stood at Legolas' shoulder like a shadow, in the best position to offer protection whilst allowing Legolas to access his own weapons, if the need arose.

Bard felt thoroughly unsettled for a moment, before the feeling passed and the elf's gaze returned somewhat to normal, for an elf. "This is Belhadron, my second in command," said Legolas, and the elf- Belhadron- nodded again to Bard.

"Well met, Bowman," he said. His gaze flickered over Bard once more, assessing, measuring. Legolas murmured something in their own tongue and Belhadron briefly nodded. One hand went to the dog at his side, and the dog leaned into his touch for a moment.

Belhadron walked at Legolas' shoulder as they went to the King's tent. He sent the dog ahead of them with a few softly spoken words, and the wiry hunter bounded off, instantly losing any aggression as he darted around the milling elves. Bard could have thought he saw Belhadron smile out of the corner of his eye, but by the time he turned to look, the elf looked just as sinister as he first had.

They reached the King's tent, and Bard stepped inside. Legolas and Belhadron remained outside, and Bard briefly glanced back before turning to the King. "You wanted to see me, my Lord?" he asked.

Thranduil nodded, and stood from where he had been sitting looking over something on parchment. "I wanted to inform you that we will be leaving tomorrow," he said. "More supplies are arriving later today via the river, and we shall be taking a large proportion of those up to Erebor, but I am leaving enough supplies for the people here to survive and begin to rebuild. I am also leaving a company of five hundred elves here to continue to help the people here. What will you be doing?"

"I, and any man who is willing and able, will be going with you to Erebor," said Bard. "The treasure in that mountain will help us rebuild Laketown. Besides, I want to see this through to the end, whatever end that may be."

Thranduil inclined his head. "You have every right to do that, of course. If you do not have sufficient weapons, speak to Legolas and we will provide what we can for your people."

"We managed to save most of the weapons of Laketown before it was destroyed," replied Bard. "And with respect, my Lord, they are not my people. If they are the people of anyone, then it is the Master, the Lord of Laketown."

Thranduil smiled mirthlessly, and Bard suddenly felt nervous. "Oh, but I believe that you have more right to a Lordship than that Master does," he said with a knowing look. "You have every right for them to answer to you."

"I don't know what you mean," said Bard shortly. "I am a bowman, and nothing more."

Thranduil waved one hand. "You may fool mortals, or some of my people, but I met Girion, and a few hundred years is not so long a time for me. I was not quite sure until now, but even when I first saw you I recognised it. I recognised the blood, if you will. You are Girion's descendent and heir, and as such, you have the rightful claim to Dale, now that Smaug is dead."

Bard shook his head. "Dale is in ruins."

"So rebuild," replied Thranduil. "There is treasure enough in that mountain for that."

"I cannot," said Bard. "I am no King."

"You are a leader," said Thranduil. "However much you deny it to yourself. You saved the people out there, you have kept them alive, and you will be leading whoever follows to Erebor. And the Kingship of Dale is in your blood, Bard. Don't tell me that you have never thought of it."

"I often have," said Bard. "But then I never believed that any of what has happened would ever come to pass." He shook his head again. "I could not. I do not think people would still follow me after we have finished here."

"There is nobody else that they would follow," replied Thranduil. "The Master is a…" The King trailed off into his own language, obviously not able to express his contempt for the man in another, less familiar language. Bard raised his eyebrows, and Thranduil turned back to him.

"This is your payment," he said to Bard. "The Master speaks of trade as payment, once Esgaroth is rebuilt, but I am looking beyond that. I want alliances. I want the strength of Dale once more. That is your payment to me, for the aid that we have given."

"My payment to you is to become…King of Dale?" asked Bard in surprise. "That does not seem like payment. What do you gain?"

"A stronger realm of men in the East," replied Thranduil. "An alliance against whatever foul things come next. Make no mistake, Bard. The shadow of Mordor will return, and it will do so soon. I want a strong kingdom beside mine when that happens, not a desolate wasteland. Someone beside the Dwarves who will come to claim Erebor."

The disdain in Thranduil's voice was evident, and Bard wondered what it was that had set elves and dwarves against each other. He did not know when such dislike between the two races had begun, only that it was something everyone had always known about, and no one had questioned, at least not out loud. It merely seemed something that had always been there. Maybe it had. But for now Bard quelled his curiosity, and turned his attention back to Thranduil.

"It will be difficult," he said. "Dale is all but ruins now."

"And you will lead them?"

Bard held back a sigh. Thranduil was more perceptive than he realised, and had noticed that Bard had avoided answering his initial statement, that Bard was to take up the crown of Dale.

"I am not a King," he said softly. "Girion's blood may be in my veins, but that does not mean I am anything like him."

"You are not," said Thranduil, cutting Bard off. "After all, you have succeeded where Girion failed." He saw the expression on Bard's face, the doubt and hesitation, and sighed slightly. "This is not a decision you have to make now," he said. "But something you should think on. Those people out there need someone to lead them, or they will wander astray."

Bard nodded, and seeing that he was dismissed, turned and left the tent. He had no idea what he was to do. He was not his ancestor. He was not Girion. He had no idea how he was to build a city up from the ruins it had been left in for two hundred years. But he was no coward. He would not leave the people around him to the Master. He would repay Thranduil and his people, and if this was the payment that they wanted, then so be it.

0-o-0-o-0

"Bard. You don't like him."

Belhadron glanced over at Legolas with a frown. "I don't dislike him," he said. "But no, I don't particularly like him either. We have no idea who he is."

Legolas inclined his head. "I suppose so," he said. "But we need his friendship."

Belhadron scoffed. "We have three thousand elves in armour and bearing weapons, and there is no obvious threat to us at the moment. I wouldn't say we need much of anything from them."

Legolas shook his head. "You never were diplomatic," he said. "Think beyond the obvious for a moment. You know that we rely on their trade. And in the years to come, we may come to want a strong realm of men beside our borders."

Belhadron sighed, and Legolas briefly clasped his shoulder. "You are too alert," he said. "There is no immediate danger here." He did not say that there was no danger, because they had become accustomed to some sort of danger being present. To say otherwise when they were always looking for that danger would be a lie. But there was nothing immediate, nothing that needed their attention.

Belhadron shrugged. "I would prefer it if there were boughs over our head," he murmured. "I don't like this."

"I know you don't, but we will have to live with it for a while longer," said Legolas. "I don't like it either, but we must wait for whatever end that is coming, and then we can return home."

Belhadron nodded, but his hand remained close to the hilt of the sword at his waist. "What did your father want with him?"

"Oh, it turns out that Bard is the rightful King of Dale," replied Legolas. "He is the heir of that crown, in a direct line from Girion." He stepped to one side as a few men moved past carrying weapons. Bard must have already begun to get his people moving.

To Legolas' surprise, Belhadron merely shrugged. "I thought he looked familiar," he said. "I had a hunch, but couldn't be sure. It has been a few hundreds years since I met Girion when I accompanied you to Dale that one time, and Bard is only his descendent, not the man himself."

"You always did have a good memory for faces," said Legolas with a chuckle. "I thought too he was familiar, but I didn't put it together until my father told me, hearing it from his spies. He has had plenty of people listening around the camp, as always." Belhadron nodded, and whistled sharply. Umor came running from nearby, and Belhadron crouched down to greet him. Legolas laughed as he ended up with an armful of enthusiastic dog.

"You wouldn't believe he's so well trained," Legolas said dryly. Belhadron grinned and stood up, ruffling Umor's fur. As with all the hunting and guard dogs he was superbly trained, but the captains had been spoiling him for a while now. Around them, when he could, he was less of a highly trained hunting dog and more of a puppy.

They headed out of the camp, Umor trotting between them as they looked for the other captains. They found one on the edge of the camp and with a grin, Belhadron sent Umor running forwards. The captain turned in time to dodge Umor's first leap, and then crouched to catch the dog as he spun around. She stood up, one hand scratching Umor's head. "You've lost something," she said with a grin.

Legolas laughed. "You can keep him," he said. The captain huffed a laugh, and looked up. "Is there something you need?"

"We're moving out," Legolas replied. "Bard and as many of his people that want to are coming with us."

The captain nodded. "We'll be ready," she replied. "The rest of the supplies should be arriving soon enough, and then we can begin to pack once more, meet the few of our scouts up by Erebor." She smiled wryly. "The sooner we can get this finished and return home, the better. I don't like not having boughs over my head."

Belhadron laughed, and looked pointedly at Legolas. They walked off around the camp, planning their next movements together, until they got further and further away and the plains around them swallowed them into silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's a little conversation-heavy at the moment, but I need this time to set everything up so that the full impact is felt at the end of the story- if I skipped straight to the battle, then there'd be a lot less development and would sort of negate the entire point of the story anyway! Next one coming on Wednesday.


	5. Fires at the Gates

They marched the next morning, the men and elves that were being left by the shores of the Long Lake watching them leave. Amongst the elves there were smiles and light comments to each other in their lyrical tongue, but the men, women and children were silent as their husbands, or their brothers or sons walked past them, salvaged weapons in their hands or at their waists.

Legolas and the other captains rode behind their King, the six of them and Bard riding the few horses that they were taking along the desolate plain. Thranduil rode in front of them, and he, like the rest of the elves, was wearing his full armour. His silver cloak fell across the back of his horse, one corner flipped up to show the deep red underneath.

Belhadron walked beside Legolas' horse, Umor trotting beside him, and the captains and him passed most of the days that it took to reach Erebor in conversation. Some of it was strategy and plans for what to do upon arriving at Erebor, and that they spoke in Westron, so that Bard could understand, but a lot of the time they seemed to speak of lighter things. Bard wasn't sure, as they slipped into their own language then, but they were smiling and laughing softly as they talked, so he did not think it was serious. He wondered how, when dressed in full armour and marching with weapons at their sides, they were still laughing. He knew that he could not, for fear of what could be coming.

It took them five days to reach Erebor, and for the elves, it had been eleven days since departing their home to this desolate land. They came into the valley under the cover of dusk, moving swiftly up both sides of the rivers until they had reached the ruins of Dale. It was beyond Dale, not yet within the arms of the mountain, that they made camp.

Bard dismounted wearily, and his gaze turned up to the mountain above them. "So we are here at last," he murmured. "And we now have to wait until morning until we can do anything at all." He handed his horse off to someone who was waiting nearby, and turned to some of the men around him.

Bard had spent the five days travelling wisely, building up a chain of command amongst his men. Already some had declared themselves as his captains, men who had stood beside him and shot at Smaug, though only he had remained until the end. But the rest of the men he ordered into companies and gave them to the command of his captains, and saw that every man was equipped for whatever battle could be coming.

Legolas came to one side. "They are setting up camp," he said. "We have tents enough for your men." Bard thanked him, and moved off to see to his own people.

Belhadron moved up beside Legolas. "Our scouts around the area are just coming in, the ones we sent ahead." He glanced up at the mountain above them, and then sighed. "Well, this is eerie."

Legolas shrugged. "I know," he said. "But we have better things to do than stand and watch the mountain. I need to see to my archers. Can you check with the other captains what guard rotation we are setting up?"

The next few hours were taken up with setting up camp and all the menial tasks that accompanied it, and by the time they were settled, it was far too dark to send anyone up to see the state of the mountain. Thranduil watched the darkness from the entrance of his tent, the darker shape of Erebor standing out to his elven eyes.

Bard walked up beside Thranduil, who handed him a glass of wine and tapped his long fingers on his own glass. "Do you know what we will find there?" Bard asked.

"Gold," replied Thranduil simply. "And more treasure beside. As to the Dwarves, I do not know. They will most likely be dead, but I have learnt by now that sometimes the most unlikely events can come to pass, seemingly by chance." Bard looked over at him, and Thranduil smiled ever so slightly. "The Dwarves may yet be alive," he said simply. "Which will undoubtedly make everything more complicated than necessary."

"They did not seem so difficult when they came through Laketown," said Bard. "Thorin was determined to claim what was his, and his companions were loyal, to have travelled so far with him."

"I do not deny that," replied Thranduil. "But they are also stubborn and petty, and have little love of growing things. They desire and covet treasure, gold and gems and jewels, above anything else. History has not been favourable to either of our sides."

There was a story there, a long and complicated history, but Bard did not ask, and Thranduil, predictably, did not tell. The Elvenking's gaze lingered on the shadow of the mountain for a little while longer, before breaking away as a captain approached. For a few minutes Bard stood at the side as the two conversed in their tongue, the rich words so strange to him.

The captain nodded, bowed to Thranduil and then moved away. In front of them a fire was lit, in the clearing around which the tents of those important enough to be there were gathered. As Bard watched, some elves wandered into the clearing and took a seat on the ground surrounding the fire. Their weapons were still by their sides, but they looked relaxed and at peace, and there was the quiet murmur of conversation amongst them.

Bard recognised a few of the elves and some of his own men amongst them, their faces sometimes lit, something hidden in shadow as the winds shifted and the flames responded in kind. Someone began humming, and then one elf started to murmur the words to one of their songs. The sweet tune twisted around the quiet words that were being spoken amongst those gathered, and for probably the first time in his life, Bard wished that he could sing.

0-o-0-o-0

"They are alive, my Lord."

Thranduil had known she was there, but an elf that was less aware would have started at the sudden presence at their side. The captain of his spies and scouts had that aura about her, of invisibility until she deigned that she should be noticed. It was not magic. She was merely very good at her job.

Thranduil gestured for her to continue, and she neatly summarised what had occurred at the mountain only an hour or so before. "It was unmistakeably Thorin Oakenshield," she concluded. "Whether the rest of his companions are alive or not is unclear, but there was additional movement on the parapet."

Thranduil nodded. "I want the camp moved right into the arms of the mountain," he told her. "We must assume that the front gate is the only entrance, and where we are the Dwarves could slip past us and escape. I will speak with Bard, but ready another contingent of archers to return to Erebor tomorrow. Relay the instructions to the other captains, and then see to your scouts."

The captain nodded. "It will be done," she said. She bowed and then turned away, neatly sidestepping Bard. He jumped, as if he had only just noticed her.

Thranduil nodded at the man in greetings as he stopped beside the King. Both of their gazes turned to Erebor. "What do we do now?" he asked.

"What would you do?" asked Thranduil. Though it may not be obvious, he was watching Bard closely, waiting to see what the man was made of. He remembered Girion, and though he knew his view of men was tainted, Girion had been a good man. He hoped that Bard could be similar.

Bard thought for a moment. "We must talk to Thorin," he said. "We must give him our demands, whatever they are, and see if he will agree to them. We need the treasure within that mountain to rebuild. I am also inclined to agree with some of my men, in that Thorin and his company are responsible, in part, for this."

"You did not think so earlier," said Thranduil.

"Earlier, I thought that they were all dead, and there was no point in holding a grudge," replied Bard. "Now they have a chance to pay for the destruction they have inadvertently wrought."

Thranduil inclined his head. "Tomorrow we shall speak to Thorin, then. I may not go myself, as I doubt my presence would do anything but incite Thorin, but I will send one of my captains to express my demands. The camp is to be moved to within the arms of the mountains, so that the Dwarves are unable to pass us."

Bard nodded. "I will see to my men," he said. With a slight bow to Thranduil, he turned away.

Thranduil watched him go with the slightest hint of a smile. Bard still may not think of himself as King, but they were getting closer. The past few days, the ceaseless marching and setting up camp every night, the thousands of minute things that came with doing so, had forced Bard to take the lead. It had helped that Thranduil had had little to do with the men, handing any problems off to Bard.

Still, though, Thranduil had little idea of what Bard would do once this was all over. The man had been rather pushed into the role he was playing now, even if he was seemingly born to play it. He only hoped that once this was over, Bard, and everyone else, was used enough to the role for him to merely keep going.

Thranduil considered it for a moment, wondering where this would end, but he had little foresight and could not tell. With the smallest of sighs he reached for his coat, and pulling it on he walked out into the camp.

0-o-0-o-0

By the time night had fallen, the camp had been moved once more. Each one of the captains walked the perimeter more than once before they were satisfied, and even then they had a few scouts posted closer to the gate, keeping watch with sharp elven eyes.

Legolas ran one hand through his hair in slight frustration as he headed back into the camp from one of the posts where the scouts were hidden. He wasn't sure what he was thinking about this anymore. There were thirteen Dwarves and apparently something called a 'hobbit', which turned out to be a perian, in Erebor. There was no army. They knew something could be coming, but they did not know what, or when, or indeed if the darkness of their home had just made them paranoid. And it seemed like a lot of it was for what was in that mountain.

As his thoughts reached this path they continued, and Legolas found himself wondering what, precisely, his father's motives were. They did not need treasure. They did not need gold or gems or anything else that mountain had to offer. He did not deny that they should be here, but he was beginning to have a few questions about why.

He came into camp, briefly stopping to talk with one of the captains on the perimeter. As was their wont, elves had gathered together around the fires that had been lit, and there was the sound of merry song in the air. Someone towards the centre of camp was playing a harp.

Legolas ducked into his tent, and Belhadron looked up from where he was sat on his own cot. "What?" he asked as he undid the buckles on one of his vambraces. His armour was piled neatly at the end of his bed.

Legolas shook his head. "Nothing," he replied, pulling off his quiver and setting it down on his cot. Belhadron scoffed.

"Give me some credit," he said. "I've known you for far too long for you to pass off that troubled face as nothing." He finished pulling off his vambraces and shed his thicker leather doublet. He leant back, pillowing his head on a spare cloak. "What is it?"

Legolas, once again, shook his head. "I'm not quite sure," he said. "I need to speak to my father first." He ran a hand over his face, and then abruptly got up from his cot. Though they were probably in the safest place in the camp, next to Thranduil's tent, there was still one of his long knives at his belt. Belhadron sighed heavily, and then nodded.

"Don't get into any trouble whilst I am not there," he murmured, turning onto his side towards the entrance to their tent. Legolas laughed softly.

"I will try not to," he said, and then left.

He did not want to question his father about their motives here, but it was beginning to trouble him. Legolas knew that he could not know half of what his father knew, knew that he would never want to be in his father's position, would never want to be King, but he still felt he had to ask.

He knocked on the tent post, and then upon hearing his father's quiet voice, pushed past the tent flap. Thranduil looked up from where he had been looking over something on the table. "Legolas," he said. "What is it?"

Legolas frowned slightly, and shook his head. "Nothing pressing," he said. "But…" He trailed off, wondering how he could say it.

"Legolas," said Thranduil again, and his voice was sterner, a warning for Legolas not to waste his time. "Speak your mind."

Legolas sat down on the edge of a chair. "What are we doing here?" he asked softly.

"What do you mean?" asked Thranduil. "You know why we are here."

"I'm not quite sure that I do," replied Legolas. "I know that part of our purpose is support to Bard and the people of Laketown, and that is something I understand and am glad to do. But we did not leave our home with the intention to do this. Ever since this morning, finding the Dwarves alive, we have been readying ourselves as if for war."

"Because with the Dwarves alive, that is a large obstacle in our way to Erebor and the gold within it," replied Thranduil. "You know that."

"But why do we need the gold?" asked Legolas. "Why do we need gems? We have enough."

Thranduil hesitated. He could not say that it was because he wanted it, though that was probably true. He remembered the size and strength of Lindon in the Second Age, remembered the tales of the Eldar Days, and some days he wished that his kingdom still had that strength. He wished that he could match what the Elves had once had.

Catching his son's eye, Thranduil realised that his hesitation had been enough. "I would not expect you to understand," he said, because Legolas was far too young to understand it all. He had no memory of such stronger times.

Legolas raised one eyebrow. "I would not understand?" he asked.

"You would not," replied Thranduil, and his voice was stern. "And I do not expect to have to explain my decisions to you, Legolas."

Legolas shook his head slightly, and voiced the path his thoughts had taken. "I know that there will be something coming, one way or another. I do not disagree with being ready, though we should be ready for reasons other than the thirteen Dwarves and the perian currently in that mountain. But I do not think we should be looking for that gold."

Thranduil's expression was unreadable as he looked at his son. "Is that your opinion?" he asked. At Legolas' hesitant nod, he frowned slightly. "Is this something you would be willing to act upon, against my orders?"

Legolas' expression immediately became shocked. "You know my loyalty is to you," he said quickly, half rising from the chair. "Give me an order and I will follow it wherever it takes me."

Thranduil's expression softened, and he reached for one of Legolas' hands. "I know," he said. He left unspoken how that terrified him sometimes, for it would not help now. "But you would overlook any payment from the Dwarves?"

Legolas chose his next words carefully. "I do not think it is important," he said. "From what I have seen, the people of Esgaroth are well deserving of our support in gaining what they need to rebuild their lives."

"In other words, it is more important to be allies to Bard and his people, than to seek our own gain," said Thranduil. Legolas hesitantly nodded, and Thranduil frowned slightly, this time in thought.

"I will think on what you have said," Thranduil said at last. But it was unmistakeable in his tone that Legolas had pushed it slightly tonight, and Legolas nodded, a silent signal that he would ask no further.

"Thank you, Adar," Legolas said with a slightly crooked smile. He stood. "I shall disrupt you no longer." Thranduil nodded, and watched his son slip out of the tent.

A large part of him knew that his realm would never be the strength of those that had already passed. There was not enough strength left in any elves present on these shores. There had not been for a while now. Their time was fading, and so were they.

He just could not help but wish, sometimes. He remembered the might that had once been, and that had only been a part of what the true might of the Eldar had been at first. And his father had been fond of white gems and jewels.

Perhaps Legolas was right. Though he may have marched his army from their home with at least some, if not more thought towards the treasure within Erebor, they did not strictly need it. There were maybe more important things to consider.

Nearby, Legolas dropped onto his cot with a sigh. Belhadron shifted so he could see him from where he was lying, and raised an eyebrow. "I ask again," he said. "What? And you cannot say nothing."

Legolas leant back slightly, and then briefly outlined what he had told his father. Belhadron nodded thoughtfully. "It makes sense," he said. "Though I'm not against annoying the Dwarves as much as possible." He grinned slightly at Legolas' face.

"I don't think many of us have much of an interest in the treasure within that mountain," he said. "I know I don't. But what are you going to do if your father does not listen?"

Legolas shook his head. "I can't do anything," he said. "If he does not listen, then we will have our orders, and I will follow them. But I will try and change his mind, if I can. I do not think we should be anything more than support and allies to Bard and his people."

"There must be some sort of-"

"Belhadron," chided Legolas. "Now is definitely not the time to try and find ways around the orders of our King." Belhadron could, if the occasion called for it, be quite inventive with orders. More than once Legolas had turned a blind eye to it, if he thought that it would serve them better, but now was not such a time.

Belhadron shrugged, or as best as he could when he was lying down. "If you need me to…"

"No," said Legolas firmly, but the corners of his lips were twitching in a poorly controlled smile. "Go to sleep."

Belhadron huffed, and rolled over slightly so he could see the entrance to the tent once more. "There are guards outside your father's tent?" he murmured, and Legolas sighed slightly.

"Yes," he replied. "And the dogs, as usual. We are all perfectly safe here. You know that."

"Don't make false promises," said Belhadron with a slightly smug grin. Legolas groaned slightly, and Belhadron chuckled. "I am only irritating you," he murmured, his eyes unfocusing as he slowly drifted into elven dreams. One hand was under the cloak that was serving as a pillow, and Legolas was fairly sure that it was holding onto Belhadron's favourite knife, the one with the ash handle.

"I know," replied Legolas with a soft smile. He pulled off his armour and the various weapons on his body, placing them within easy reach. He had told Belhadron that they were perfectly safe. Somehow, he didn't quite believe himself.


	6. Banners and Chivalry

The next morning dawned overcast, and as Legolas woke it was already snowing slightly. Belhadron grimaced as he stuck his head outside briefly. "I hate the snow and cold," he muttered. It had been centuries since he had fallen through the ice of the river and nearly drowned one winter, but elves had long memories.

Legolas pulled on his doublet and slipped vambraces onto his arms. "I'm going to see Bard, and then see if my father has made up his mind yet," he said, doing up the buckles of the vambraces. "It's only just dawn, so we have a few hours before a decision will have to be made. Where did you put my cloak?"

"I didn't put it anywhere," replied Belhadron with a grin, shouldering his quiver. "It was your pillow, as usual. It is lying right there." Legolas picked it up with a sheepish smile.

"I have to go," said Belhadron. "It's my turn to see to the scouts, I think. I'll pick up Umor from the guards and take him with me, if I can." He looked outside, grimaced, and then caught the pair of gloves and cloak that Legolas had tossed them. Slipping them on, he ducked out into the cold. Shortly after, Legolas followed, heading to find Bard.

"Have you chosen your men?" he asked. Bard nodded, and joined Legolas as they began to walk through the camp. They had done this close to every morning since leaving the shores of the Long Lake, the two of them walking through the camp, ensuring everything was in order.

"They are readying now," Bard said. "Are we prepared?"

"So far, though it is only early in the morning," replied Legolas with a wry smile. "Something will be wrong by the end of the day. I have no orders yet on the elves that will be accompanying you, nor the demands we shall make. Undoubtedly someone will let you know soon enough."

Bard nodded, though he got the idea from Legolas' tone that it would be better if he asked himself, rather than wait for orders. The readiness of the thought surprised him. He had not realised he had become accustomed to speaking so readily to elves and Kings.

He pulled out some of the lembas waybread that Legolas had given him, the day after the elves had first arrived. Legolas glanced over, and frowned slightly, though a wry smile came over his face at the same time.

"Do not be so open with that," he said. "In all honesty, you should not have that _lembas._ "

"You gave me this," Bard pointed out, breaking off a corner and eating it before wrapping the rest back up and putting it back in a pocket. Legolas laughed.

"I know, and it was mine to give, but it is not something we usually share lightly. In the times of our might it was tradition that only the Queen could make and give _lembas_ , but many centuries have passed since then. Now, nearly every warrior carries some with them, but the memories of the tradition lingers, and we are still a secretive people."

"And you could not tell us how to make it," Bard guessed.

Legolas shook his head. "No," he replied. "But I do not know how, anyway. It is still a fairly close-guarded secret." He glanced away from Bard, across the camp, and if Bard hadn't spent the past week studying the elves around him he would have missed the subtle expression that flitted over Legolas' face. "What you have in your pocket could never rival the _lembas_ that was made, before I was even born," he said. "As with all things, it has faded and become less wholesome with time and the creeping of the shadow."

"Is that all that has happened?" asked Bard as they threaded their way through two tents towards the perimeter of the camp. "Have you…" He was not sure how he could word something like the thoughts that were going through his mind, not when it probably meant a great deal to all the elves here.

"Have we been fading and losing strength all this time?" asked Legolas with a brief laugh at Bard's slightly shocked face. "Yes, we have. The time of the elves is passing, no matter how stubborn some of us may be. What is here is but a fraction of the might of those days that have long since vanished into dust and over the seas. But don't worry. We still have strength enough, for now at least."

"And what will happen in years to come?" asked Bard. He knew fairly little of elves, only what was passed along in tales from mothers and elders, and those facts that everyone seemingly knew without being told.

Legolas shrugged, which Bard momentarily thought was a strange thing for an elf to do. "I don't know," he said. "Truthfully, I'm not sure. We will be here as long as our realm stands, one way or another. But no matter what comes you will have an ally in us, Bard."

They soon parted, Legolas being pulled away by Belhadron, who had appeared like a shadow at the captain's side. His large dog padded by him as usual. Bard had tried not to jump as the dark haired elf suddenly appeared beside them, but judging by the swift grin that had appeared on Belhadron's face, he had failed.

Soon enough word came from the elves, Thranduil seeking out Bard, and then the contingent of men and elves left for the mountain. Bard led them, and the blue and silver banners of Laketown, the ones they had salvaged, fluttered next to the green of the Woodland Realm.

Legolas watched them go from the edge of the camp, picking their way up the once smooth path that was now pitted with age and the marks of a dragon. A few of their archers were there, backing up Bard and his men, but that was the extent of their presence. At least, it was for now. This was only an initial visit to the mountain. Any demands would come later.

Belhadron was at his shoulder, as usual, and he grinned wryly as Legolas held back a sigh. "Either your father will listen, or he will not," he said, his voice soft enough so that the words would not carry. "There is not much more you can do."

Legolas shrugged, turning to face his friend. "Perhaps," he said, but his voice was thoughtful. Belhadron frowned.

"I know that tone," he said. "Whatever you are thinking of; don't. We don't have the time, _mellon-nin_."

"We have nothing but time here," Legolas pointed out. "You are already becoming restless and we have only been here a day. Besides, I was not thinking of much. I only wish to talk to my father one more time."

Belhadron shook his head, but a fond smile was on his face. "I learnt long ago to not try and change your mind when it is set on something," he said. "Go and speak to him, but wait until we know what is going on up there. I have to go, because I actually do have things to do this morning, but I'll find you."

Legolas nodded and watched as Belhadron turned and walked back into the camp. He always did manage to find him, somehow.

0-o-0-o-0

Bard returned to the camp with a frown set on his face, his men trudging despondently behind him. The elves seemed more cheerful, talking quietly amongst themselves, but even with them there was an air of discontent, and tension began slowly seeping through the camp as soon as they returned.

"Thorin won't give us anything of his own free will," said Bard. "And it looks like we will have to besiege or even fight him if we want anything from that mountain. There are only fourteen of them, so it should not be too difficult."

Thranduil held up one hand. They were in a pavilion within the camp, large enough to fit Thranduil, Bard and all their captains. Legolas was standing to one side of Thranduil's chair, Belhadron lounging against a post behind him. His dark eyes continually flitted from man to man, and Legolas noticed more than one of them shifting uneasily and looking away. He couldn't turn to see Belhadron's face, but he was quite sure that his friend was enjoying himself.

"We do not need to be so hasty," Thranduil said. "War with Dwarves is not a good idea. We can hope that some of the more rational Dwarves within that mountain will talk Thorin around before too long."

"Thorin will not change his mind on his own?" asked Bard. Thranduil shook his head, a faint wry smile curling the corners of his lips.

"He will not, if he is anything like his grandfather," he replied. "I do not doubt that the gold in that mountain already has a strong hold on him. No, we must wait."

"It looks like the Front Gate is the only entrance to Erebor, given the way they have protected it," said Bard. "Besides, is appears that Smaug attacked some sides of the mountain a few days before he came to us, and we can only assume we was attempting to get to the Dwarves, or seal of what entrance they used to get in. We can besiege them easily enough."

Thranduil nodded. "We have people enough for that."

His spy captain stepped forwards out of the shadows that had almost seemed to form around herself. Quite a few of the men jumped as she came forwards, and to the elven captains, they could see her amusement. She did not mean to almost disappear, most of the time. She did not mean to go unnoticeable, but sometimes she forgot herself when other matters where on her mind.

"My scouts are at your command, my Lord," she said. From behind Legolas Belhadron grinned at the obvious discomfort of a few of the men. It seemed as if they did not know to be more scared of him, with his dark eyes and fey smile, or her, with the stillness and silence that was not the usual habit of living things.

Thranduil spoke, and instantly all attention turned back to him. "I want to know where their lookout is, the details of their defences, anything that you can get me," he told her. "Send your scouts up close to the mountain once more, and find me what we need." She nodded, bowed to the King and then left the tent, subtle amusement glimmering in her eyes as she flipped up the hood of her mottled grey cloak.

"We may have to wait for a while," said one of the other captains, once Thranduil had nodded for her to speak. "I doubt Thorin will be convinced easily."

"He will not," said Thranduil. "But we have enough supplies to wait him out." He looked over at Bard. "What will you ask of Thorin Oakenshield?"

"I don't know yet," said Bard. He looked around at his own men. "We need to talk it over, but shall have an answer soon enough."

Thranduil nodded. "I will decide on whatever demands the elves are also making," he said. "Make your decisions wisely." He stood, and Bard bowed slightly to him, turning and leaving the tent with his men behind him. The captains all nodded, bowed to their King, and then left. Legolas paused abruptly at the entrance to the pavilion, and turned back to his father. Belhadron, who had been just behind Legolas, skidded to a stop before he ran into the blond elf. With a long suffering sigh and a pointed glare at Legolas, he stepped around him and left.

Thranduil looked over at his son. "What is it?" he asked. Legolas hesitated, and Thranduil inclined his head. "Walk with me."

They headed out of the camp, passing through the perimeter that was already being set up. Legolas noticed Belhadron had come to the edge of the camp and was watching from a distance, but he said nothing. Once they were far enough outside that they would not be overheard if they kept their voices low, Thranduil stopped and turned to Legolas expectantly.

"May I speak openly?" Legolas asked.

"You may," Thranduil said, his voice the calm and collected manner of a King questioning his captain, and not a father speaking to his son. Legolas had expected nothing less.

"I don't think that we should make any demands of Thorin Oakenshield."

"You have already told me this," Thranduil said. "And I told you that I would think of it. Why are you asking this of me again?" His eyes narrowed slightly, but Legolas held his ground.

"You said that I could speak openly," said Legolas, slightly avoiding the question put to him. "This is what I think. We do not need anything from Thorin and his company. To ask will just antagonise him, and make him less likely to answer any requests from Bard and his men."

Thranduil raised one eyebrow, and Legolas continued. "We don't need the gold or treasure in that mountain. And you know what it does to people! You saw what that gold did to Thror."

"And what makes you think that it could affect us the same way?" asked Thranduil, his voice slowly becoming brittle and sharp.

"I have no idea if it could or not," replied Legolas. "But given our history, given the history of the elves, I would not like to risk it."

Thranduil glared at Legolas. "We are not Noldor," he said. "We are not responsible for the First Age, and I would like to think I could handle a few more gold and gems. Be careful, Legolas. You are pushing it once more."

Legolas shook his head. "I know you would not step wrong," he said. "But things such as these have a tendency to go wrong nonetheless. The men of Esgaroth need the gold. We do not."

Thranduil raised one eyebrow again, and Legolas, with a deep breath, continued. "We should be allies to the men, first and foremost. We should be there to support whatever claim Bard asks for. Not for our own gain."

"And why is that?"

Legolas' voice rose, despite his attempt at controlling it. "Because they have lost everything! Because their homes have been destroyed, their livelihoods, and almost everything else they need. Hundreds of them have died!" He made an effort to lower his voice, and continued. "We have to help them, and we cannot help if we seek what is in that mountain."

Thranduil was silent, and Legolas hesitated, afraid that this time he had overstepped his boundaries. Thranduil turned to him, and his face was completely unreadable, even for Legolas.

"I have made my decision already," he said to Legolas. He turned to walk back into the camp. "That will be all."

" _Adar_ ," said Legolas, but Thranduil did not turn back. Legolas sighed and began slowly walking back into the camp behind his father. Belhadron met him at the edge. Though he didn't say anything, Legolas felt the solid presence of his second at his side, and it was reassuring.

Belhadron was right. There was something unsettling about the wide open spaces, something that was putting all of the elves on edge. He glanced up towards Erebor, and upon seeing the mountain, a dark grey shadow towering over them, Legolas couldn't help wondering how this might end, just what they were walking into.

0-o-0-o-0

Thranduil watched as the banner men returned once more to the mountain, to issue Bard's demands. Most of his captains were arrayed behind him, though the head of his scouts and spies was up somewhere on one of the spurs of the mountain, where she could see everything clearly, and another captain had accompanied the banner men.

He turned to the five captains standing behind him. "I trust that you have everything in readiness," he said to them. All of them nodded, for they had had little else to do since they arrived.

Thranduil's gaze lingered slightly on Legolas. "I did not make any demands of the Dwarves," he said. "I talked long with Bard, and I decided that his cause was more important than our own gain." That was all the explanation he offered them, though he knew that any demand he made of Thorin would only endanger Bard's cause. Thorin could not see straight anymore, most likely, and would not separate Bard from Thranduil because of their alliance.

"What do we say to those who ask?" asked one of the captains softly. Thranduil's gaze turned to the captain, but he saw out of the corner of his eye Legolas, looking relieved and swiftly sharing a small smile with Belhadron.

"Tell them what you believe you should," Thranduil replied. "But you must look beyond what is happening now. The Master will certainly give us any deal that we ask for, and I should not have to tell you the advantages of having the strength back outside our borders."

The captain bowed his head, and Thranduil held each of their gazes in turn. They were long used to this, to being examined as such by their King, because they all held his gaze steadily. They had learnt long ago that they could not hide their thoughts from him, not if they wanted to.

They looked slightly relieved, Thranduil thought, and again he realised that he had made the right decision. He had no desire to spark a war between his people and the Dwarves. It would just cause more bloodshed, and above almost everything, he wanted to keep his people as safe as he could. But the allure of gold was something he could feel even miles away from that accursed mountain.

"You have other duties to attend to," he said to the captains. "See to them. Ensure your companies are ready for those possibilities that we have already discussed." He nodded to them, and the captains bowed, turning on their heels to depart.

Legolas stayed a moment, and Thranduil could feel his searching gaze. He smiled softly. "There are more important things here than what that mountain contains." Legolas dipped his head, and Thranduil briefly clasped his shoulder as he walked past, nodding at Belhadron.

The next few hours passed slowly, and every elf stopped at some point and watched for the party that had left. Bard spent most of his time walking the part of the perimeter of the camp closest to the mountain and questioning the elven guards on what they could see. Many men were doing the same, and that part of the perimeter could not have been more heavily fortified if they had been trying.

Belhadron came up beside Legolas, who was talking with a few of his archers. "Please," he said softly. "Can you watch the mountain for Bard? He's wearing a ditch in our perimeter, and I don't care if he is the next King of Dale, I am going to shoot him soon."

Legolas laughed, and the few archers who had heard Belhadron grinned, for they were of Legolas' company and so knew Belhadron well. This was a fairly frequent threat.

"You still do not like him," remarked Legolas as they made their way to the edge of camp. Belhadron shook his head.

"It hardly matters what I think," he replied. "Just keep him occupied for now."

"So you can restlessly patrol the perimeter instead?" asked Legolas with a laugh. Belhadron glared at him, and he subsided. "I shall offer him what comfort I can, but I do not know how much I can see from here. It is not as if we are expecting any more news."

And indeed they weren't. The men and elves had merely gone to state Bard's demands of Thorin, and nobody was expecting an answer beyond an outright refusal. But still there was a tense air amongst the men and elves. Many were stopping in their duties and watching the mountain, looking for a sign of what might be to come.

The first sign was when Thranduil's spy captain came back into camp, heading straight for the King's tent as she flitted through the grey lands around them. Belhadron had run out to meet her, and the few words they exchanged had him reaching angrily for his bow. She stopped him with a few swift words and a hit to his arm, before quickly heading on into camp, startling some of the men and even a few elves on the perimeter as she flipped back her hood and her auburn hair flashed in the weak sunlight.

Belhadron came to the other captains and Legolas, who had seen the exchange and walked out to meet him. "He shot at them," he growled out through clenched teeth, one hand still itching to go to his bow. "That stunted excuse for a Dwarf shot at our messenger." At those words the faces of each captain simultaneously shut down. Some were angry, and some were merely weary of what was now seeming too close to inevitable. Belhadron was glaring at the mountain, and his hand was inching towards his bow, or possibly the knife at the small of his back.

Legolas caught his arm, and though he was angry, his voice remained steady and calm. "Don't," he said. "Leave it."

"They shot at him!" exclaimed one of the other captains, his own hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. One of the others rolled her eyes.

"Rhavaniel already punched Belhadron," she said tersely, with a pointed look at Belhadron, who had the good graces to look slightly sheepish. "Don't make me hit you as well." There were murmurs of a laugh amongst the captains, but only murmurs, and they died quickly.

They returned to camp, and before the party had returned to them the air was thickening with softly muted anger. It was first amongst the elves, spreading from the captains, but soon enough the men found out. It took some explaining for a few men, why the act was such an offense, but Bard understood it easily enough. He saw the anger running through the elves, the tight-lipped faces as the party walked back to the camp, an elf bearing the shield with an arrow stuck fast in it.

"It is cowardly," Bard heard one elf spit in anger, a few of them trying to explain to some of his men why there where whispered shouting matches amongst the elves. "And dishonourable. You do not shoot at those who are merely the bearers of news."

"We are not even their enemies," said another elf darkly. He looked to say something else, but in the end did not speak anymore. Shaking his head bitterly, he walked off into the camp.

The mountain was now properly besieged, though honestly they had not changed much, except to make the guards and perimeter more obvious. Legolas patrolled the length of the entire perimeter once, with Rhavaniel, the captain of Thranduil's scouts and spies, at his side. She had the best eyes for potential weaknesses. As usual, Belhadron walked with Legolas, and Umor padded beside the three of them. Belhadron had one hand on the dog's head for a little while, but after what looked like a few choice words from Rhavaniel, he was calm enough.

Thranduil watched them from the doorway of the pavilion they had all been in, only this morning. He had made good choices, he reflected, allowing Legolas to keep Belhadron as his second, and appointing Rhavaniel captain of his spies. Belhadron had gone against, or around, his orders a few times, and Rhavaniel was maybe not an obvious captain, amongst the others, but he could recognise unwavering loyalty and superb skills.

Rhavaniel was the most skilled that there was in deception, and could disappear nearly anywhere. She had saved many lives because of the information she and her spies had found before. Belhadron had saved Legolas' life more times than Thranduil cared to remember, often at the near cost of his own. He knew to which one of them he should be more grateful, and yet Thranduil found a selfish part of him owing Belhadron more. He watched as the dark-haired elf, built with a swordsman's stance rather than Legolas' grace as an archer, laughed and clasped Legolas' shoulder, and he found himself smiling at the returning grin from his son.

He had meant it, when he had said that there were more important things here than whatever was in that mountain, but he had not meant alliances or future trade. He would not see his people fight merely for such things. He would not see his son hurt because of his own weaknesses.

Thranduil allowed himself to watch them for a moment longer, before turning away, and slipping the cold mask of a king down once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my opinion, at least, the elves are fully justified in being angry at Thorin for shooting at their messenger. There's an unwritten code of conduct in war that the messenger or emissary must remain unharmed, even if they have been sent from mortal enemies. It's chivalry, and honour, and both things would likely be important to elves. Seeing them violated by someone who isn't even technically their enemy, in a way, would make them angry.


	7. Beginning of the First Fires

It was late at night, and though torches had sprung alight around the camp, still many places were hung with shadows. The land outside was black and cold. Some of Bard's men were watching part of the perimeter, the south-eastern edge. They were gathered around one of the fires, trying not to shiver as the cold of night settled. The elves that had been with them had been called away momentarily and, for the time being, they were in charge.

It was for that reason, perhaps, that their hands so readily drew their weapons when they heard the sudden sound of hoofbeats from the darkness. "Who goes there?" called out one of the men. He stepped forwards, spear in his hand, and his companions flanked him.

A large horse came into the edge of the light from the torches, and a cloaked figure dismounted with a slither of cloth. The men levelled their weapons once more.

"Who are you, and why have you come this way?" one of the men asked, seeing no need to be polite about it. The figure stepped forwards, and it became apparent that it was an old man, cloaked in grey and leaning on a staff. The men momentarily relaxed at the image, before the man turned to the horse and said a few words, and in doing so revealed a long sword at his side. The horse almost seemed to nod, and then turned and cantered away, as if he had understood the man's intentions.

The men levelled their weapons once more. "Speak your name and intent, old man," said the first.

The man looked up. "My intent is to enter your camp and speak to your leader Bard, and the Elvenking if he will listen. But intentions vary with the changing wind, and so you may find me in a far different position to the one I wish to occupy now. As for my name, well, that is simpler. I am Gandalf."

This did not have the intended effect, for none of the men recognised the name. The first man shook his head. "You will have to wait here," he said. "Do not come into the camp, and lay your weapon down on the-"

"Hold!"

The command rung out from behind them in a clear elven voice, and all of the men turned to see the blond elf-captain, Legolas, approaching quickly. The dark-haired elf that seemed to shadow him a lot of the time was at his shoulder with his hunting dog at his side, and he seemed to glare in the general direction of the men before turning his attention to the cloaked figure in front of them.

Legolas strode forwards towards the cloaked man, and then suddenly he laughed, a smile full of mirth coming across his face.

"Mithrandir!" he exclaimed. "I thought you might turn up at some time." He reached out and clasped Gandalf's arm in greetings. Behind him, Belhadron gestured for the men to lower their weapons, not even bothering to look over at them. His dog sat down, ears pricked as he watched.

"Legolas Greenleaf," replied Gandalf with a returning smile. "And your ever-present shadow, of course." He looked over Legolas' shoulder to Belhadron. To the surprise of the men, Belhadron grinned and barked a short laugh, replying to Gandalf in his own tongue.

"Well done," Legolas told the men. "But you need not worry. Gandalf is an old friend of the Woodland Realm." He turned back to Gandalf, dismissing the men. "My- The King will be in his tent, and Bard will most likely be there or nearby. We will take you to them."

Gandalf nodded his thanks, and walked beside Legolas into the camp. He slipped into Silvan for ease of speak. "If you are here, then I must assume that-"

"The Dwarves are alive," filled in Legolas. "At least, Thorin and some of the others are alive, for we have seen them ourselves. We don't know if any of them have perished at all, but my father doubts it." He looked over at Gandalf, and did not miss the relief that briefly flooded the wizard's face, before he brought it under control once more. Legolas frowned slightly, and a brief touch at his arm told him that Belhadron had seen it to, but such questions would undoubtedly be answered later. For now, he held his tongue.

"And what are your intentions here?" Gandalf asked, his gaze carefully taking in everything around them. Belhadron, walking at Legolas' shoulder, scoffed.

"I think you mean to ask why we are armed and camped outside that accursed mountain like this, and whether we plan to wage war on the Dwarves," he said. "You do not have to be so evasive, Mithrandir. We're all so accustomed to reading between your words that you might as well state your thoughts outright."

Gandalf glared at Belhadron, but it was a friendly glare. He swung his staff, catching the elf in the back of the knee and making him jump forwards to avoid tripping. "If I wanted your opinion," he said. "I would ask for it."

"That wouldn't make any difference," said Legolas. "He's restless because we're exposed and in the open, and there isn't a huge amount to do. There's more chance than ever of him speaking his mind now."

Belhadron laughed, and Umor whined softly in his throat, budging between him and Legolas. Gandalf looked down. "Who is this?" he asked.

"Umor," replied Belhadron with a sharp grin at Gandalf's raised eyebrow. "Yes, there is a story behind his name and no, you won't hear it from us."

"He's actually a hunting dog," said Legolas. "But he's a good guard dog as well, and us captains sort of claimed him as our own, when he isn't doing his job. He's been ours for about six years now."

"He's a good dog," said Belhadron with a smile, his hand ruffling Umor's ears. Umor promptly licked his hand and Gandalf laughed. But the sound soon fell away in the darkness, and the mountain loomed overhead.

0-o-0-o-0

Thranduil sat elegantly within the pavilion, despite the late hour. His silver cloak was fanned out around him, and his golden hair, unchecked by the lack of crown on his head, fell loose around his shoulders and glowed orange in the torchlight. "Start at the beginning, Mithrandir," he said. "And do try not to lose Bard in your wandering tales. He does not have such experience as I do with you." Bard said nothing, but his sharp eyes seemed amused to Gandalf, and he settled back in the chair next to the Elvenking.

"If you really want me to start from the beginning, then I must go a long way back," replied Gandalf, watching Bard as carefully as the man was watching him. Thranduil's mouth quirked slightly, but his gaze did not change much from the cold stare that was so common to him now. Gandalf had had plenty of opportunities to learn when Thranduil was in a patient mood, and right now, the King was anything but.

"I met Thorin Oakenshield one evening in Bree last year, if that is a good enough beginning for you. It was there that I offered my help to him." Gandalf laid out the entire story, omitting only his suspicions about Bilbo and what had happened within those mountains, and those details he felt were personal to the band he had become so fond of.

Thranduil listened with growing impatience as Gandalf spoke of the Dwarves' journey. Finally, Gandalf seemed to reach some sort of end. Thranduil spoke, his voice frozen steel.

"I used to think that you were perhaps like a moth, Mithrandir," he said. "Drawn to trouble like it to a flame. Now, I am beginning to think that you are the spark that starts the first fires." He sat back. "By your own admission, this is partly your own fault."

Gandalf bristled slightly at the veiled tone in Thranduil's voice. "There are much more complicated things at play here than myself, and you know that," he replied. "But I do not think anyone is at fault here. Those Dwarves merely want to reclaim what is theirs. You should know, Thranduil, that by elven standards, they have not gone that far to reclaim what they believe belongs to them."

Bard flinched slightly as Thranduil leant forwards, the steel mask slipping for a brief second and revealing the rage across his face. Even Gandalf looked, for a second, as if he had made a mistake. Thranduil's lips bared in a soundless snarl. "Do not dare to bring up such things I had no hand in," he said, voice perfectly cold. "Things that caused so much misery to so many. Do not compare the mistakes made so many centuries ago to what Oakenshield may or may not do. Do not presume that I do not know how this might still end. You forget. I have seen this all before."

Gandalf held his gaze. "They have done nothing wrong," he said. "That mountain is their own realm."

"They released a dragon upon us," said Bard, leaning back in his chair. Thranduil sat back, his eyes narrowed, and watched as Bard spoke. "Esgaroth is destroyed. Hundreds of people died." He paused, and in his eyes Gandalf saw a sharp mind that was now coming into its own.

"Did you know a lot of them were children?" Bard asked. His voice was not as intimidating as Thranduil's, he had not had the practice that the Elvenking had, but still Gandalf saw the look of kings within him. He wondered at this man, who had remained hidden even from him until events forced his hand, and recognition began to spark in his mind. Bard continued, forcing himself to relax into the chair even more.

"They weren't able to cope with the freezing nights once their homes were destroyed by dragon's flames," he said. "A lot of other people died in those first few nights, even if they weren't injured. We would all have died if it weren't for the kindness of the elves." Maybe that was an exaggeration, for their land and animals had mostly survived, but a lot more would have perished if Thranduil had not turned up.

"For that, I am deeply sorry," said Gandalf, and indeed there was heavy regret and sorrow on his old face. "I cannot offer any help to those people beyond which I am sure Thranduil has already given, but I can help you here. That is why I came."

"You would help us, when the very Dwarves you have been travelling with are within that mountain?" Bard scoffed, and shook his head. "By your own accounts, they would welcome you with open arms. Why not go to them?"

"Because that will achieve nothing," snapped Gandalf. "You should be able to recognise that. I would see this end without bloodshed, if at all possible." There was more to it than that, but that was all he would say for the moment. It would be a lie to say that he felt no guilt over what had happened to the people of Laketown. At the very least, he also was Thranduil's friend, and he had seen the festering darkness that had seeped from Dol Guldur. Gandalf had long since known the resilience of the Woodland elves, but he had had a stark reminder in the past few days. He would see as many of them survive as possible, if he could.

"I have told you my story," said Gandalf, meeting both Thranduil's and Bard's gaze in turn. "Now I wish to hear yours."

After a pause Thranduil began, telling Gandalf briefly of the spiders, capturing the Dwarves, and their escape, before skipping forwards to the movements of the elves once Smaug had died. Soon enough Bard took over, and he continued the story until the end, speaking first of the arrival of the Dwarves in Laketown. His voice quietened as he spoke of Smaug. Both Thranduil and Gandalf saw the small tremors in his hands, the ones that he tried to disguise by clenching his fists under the table. They said nothing, of course, because they were old, and they had seen it all before.

Bard finished his tale quickly. He seemed to have grasped the idea of efficient reporting fairly easily, and soon fell silent. Gandalf let out a breath he did not realise he had been holding.

"So you will wait here until Thorin agrees to your demands?" asked Gandalf. "In case you do not remember, Thranduil, Thorin Oakenshield will not easily be swayed. Winter is coming, and these parts will soon become even more desolate."

"We will remain for as long as we have to," replied Bard. "And I think that they will find winter more difficult than us within that mountain when they run out of food and are unable to leave." Gandalf drew himself up at the thinly veiled threat, and the air around him seemed to darken.

Thranduil held up one hand. "Enough," he said quietly.

He had been thinking hard for the past few minutes, as Bard told his own story, and he had seen the grief on Gandalf's face as the wizard had heard the full extent of what had happened. Bard, in his bitterness, had left nothing out. Thranduil supposed that his words earlier had been hasty, for he had now given Bard a quick enemy to blame.

"Mithrandir is not to blame," he said quietly to Bard. "Much as we may like to." His gaze flitted to Gandalf, who nodded slowly in understanding. "But Mithrandir was right in saying that there are things larger than even him at play here, and we can, at most, see it through to the end."

Bard seemed to be considering Thranduil's words, and the Elvenking could see when he made a decision. In the days and years to come, when Bard became King, he would have to be more guarded with his facial expressions. But for now the man straightened, and then nodded apologetically at Gandalf. "I did not mean to be rash," Bard said. "These past days have been trying."

Gandalf bowed his head in response. "And they will become more trying before the end," he replied. Bard did nothing but acknowledge Gandalf's statement with a slight nod, and Gandalf felt his opinion of the man rise slightly. He had not been sure what to make of Bard in the beginning, the grim man at Thranduil's side, reluctant leader of the men next to a King. He was pleased to see Bard beginning to show his own strength.

Gandalf continued, his gaze fixed on Bard. "Thranduil will tell you, if you do not believe my own words, that I would have never wished for what has befallen your people to come to pass." Thranduil inclined his head, and Gandalf pressed on.

"You do not trust me, Bard, and that I can understand, but if King Thranduil were to think for a moment, then he would realise that I have always tried to help his realm as much as I can, and that I want to see the same things that he does in this world." Gandalf drew himself up, his voice loud. He was quite unlike the old man that had been sitting in front of them a few moments ago.

Gandalf turned to Thranduil, looking down at him. "I have never given you any doubt as to my intentions, nor should I have to," he said. "You know who I am."

"Indeed I do, Istar," replied Thranduil, and Bard frowned at the word loaded with such ominous tone. Bard, seemingly quite forgotten to one side, watched as the elf and wizard stood against each other, and the air within the pavilion seemed to him to thicken.

And then Gandalf spoke, in Thranduil's own tongue. Thranduil seemed to consider his words for a moment, before suddenly the tension dissipated. The Elvenking relaxed in his chair, and Gandalf huffed a laugh.

"Why do we always play these games, Mithrandir?" asked Thranduil with a crooked smile. Bard watched in slight amazement as the two of them grinned like old friends enjoying a shared joke.

Gandalf shook his head. "I do not mean to start them, Thranduil," he said. "Yet we end up here every time nonetheless." He pulled a pipe out of a pocket hidden in his grey robes, and a pouch of what Bard assumed must be pipeweed. Thranduil raised one eyebrow.

"Not in my pavilion," he said. "Not in my camp, actually. If you insist, then you may keep company with others who do not mind the stench." Gandalf huffed, but put the pipe back in some hidden pocket. Thranduil inclined his head in thanks, and then began to speak of the setup of their camp to Gandalf, much like a captain would report to his commander.

Bard watched them in wonder, most of the time. He could not grasp their friendship, if it was even that. There was an alliance between them, that was certain, but sometimes they acted like old friends, speaking of things only they knew of that happened long ago. Other times, they seemed as captain and commander, though the roles seemed to switch between them at random. After a while, Bard stopped trying to work all of it out.

0-o-0-o-0

It was well into night when Bard excused himself, wishing to check on his men before getting what sleep he could. Gandalf watched him leave, the tent flap fluttering shut.

"He seems like a good man," he said. "A leader as well. Will he be taking up the crown of Dale?"

Thranduil didn't even bother to ask how Gandalf knew of Bard's ancestry. He had known the wizard for far too long to be surprised by such things. "He was reluctant at first," he replied. "But there was nobody else to lead the men, and Bard would not have seen them be forgotten in all of this. I think he felt he had to step up for them, and is fitting the role nicely so far."

"But what of the crown?" asked Gandalf. "If he becomes King of Dale, and there is a realm of Dwarves within Erebor once more, then the east will be strong, and can stand against the shadow, no matter how dark."

"No matter how dark?" asked Thranduil dryly, raising one eyebrow. "I doubt it, Mithrandir. But Bard looks more and more likely to take up that crown each coming day, and with that will come a strong hold on the east. You are right, even if it means I must tolerate Dwarves nearby once more." Gandalf shook his head slightly.

"I must admit, this is unlike you, Thranduil," the wizard said. "You have left your own realm far less protected than it would normally be, and whatever your initial intentions when bringing your army here, you are now fully supporting Bard and his cause. You are not even making any demands of your own. You ask for none of the gold, none of those white gems within that mountain."

"I will not deny that I set out with that intention," Thranduil said, holding back a sigh. "If I did, you would not believe me. But that was before I saw what has happened to the people of Esgaroth." He shook his head.

"I know my weaknesses, Mithrandir. And I want the jewels in that mountain. But you forget, I think, that I know what happens when elves value jewels and gold over the lives of others. My people bore the brunt of all that, long ago. I would never dare to do the same to others. That would make me no better than those sons of Feanor. Worse, perhaps, because I am forewarned of the consequences." Thranduil paused, and when he next spoke, his voice was perhaps a little raw.

"I have judged my own needs to be more important than others in previous times," he said. "I will not make that mistake here. I was reminded of what Bard's people have lost, and I was reminded that there are far more important things here than the gold in that mountain." His tone was unmistakeably fond, and Gandalf's expression softened.

Thranduil smiled at Gandalf's expression. "Legolas' heart has always been in the right place," he said. "One day, I fear I shall rue it."

Gandalf shook his head. "Do not dwell on such possibilities now, Thranduil," he said. "You know better than that. But for what it is worth, I believe it shall be the very opposite that you come to know."

Thranduil chuckled softly. "I have not missed your riddles, Mithrandir," he said. "But for all the posturing and talk, I am glad you have come. You may be drawn to trouble like a moth to flame, but at least you help put out the fires."

Gandalf laughed heartily. "It has been too long, Thranduil," he replied, subsiding into the occasional chuckle. "I am only sorry that such times have come around once more."

"Not to mention that you told the Dwarves to travel through my realm without asking my permission," Thranduil pointed out, a little ire in his voice. "That could have been handled with more tact from Thorin Oakenshield."

Gandalf inclined his head. "They are stubborn to a fault sometimes," he admitted. "But I have come to know Thorin Oakenshield well, and he is not so different from you." Thranduil raised his eyebrows, and Gandalf chuckled. "Old friend, you have so blinded yourself to anything apart from their faults that you cannot see it. He is just as determined to protect his people and his family as you are. It just happens that history has not been kind to either of you, and that he has failed, where you have largely succeeded."

"So far," muttered Thranduil darkly. Gandalf glared at him from under his thick brows.

"They are my friends," Gandalf said firmly. "And I will do what I can to help them. You as well, if you will not be so stubborn."

Thranduil laughed. "I learnt the art long ago, old friend, and it has served me very well so far. You cannot change two Ages of habit in one conversation."

"I can only try," replied Gandalf with a smile. He stood from his chair. "There is more news that I must share with you, but it should wait until the morning," he said. "I should not detain you any longer."

"You mean to say that you want to have a look around my camp," said Thranduil with a wry smile. He stood, his cloak falling about him. "Someone will have established a tent for you nearby." He shook his head slightly. "We should not play these games, old friend. We know each other far too well for that."

"Indeed," murmured Gandalf. He bowed his head to Thranduil, his few concessions to the elf's crown, and then ducked out of the tent. Thranduil watched him go with a wry smile on his face.

He had thought Mithrandir would turn up sooner or later. Thranduil had known the wizard for a very long time now, ever since Gandalf had arrived on these shores in the middle of the Third Age. He was no fool; he knew who Gandalf was, and he knew the power that hid behind the appearance of an old man. But that did not mean the wizard was not a friend to the Woodland Realm or to him. In fact, he was rather glad to see Gandalf once more, even though his arrival only too often heralded worse things to come.

Whatever it was, it could wait until the morning.


	8. The Definition of Good News

"I have news of Dol Guldur."

The small pavilion instantly fell silent, the elves around the table glancing warily at each other before their gaze turned to their King. They fell still, hands frozen so they would not inch towards weapons. For a few moments, there was only the sound of the rain drumming lightly on the tent roof.

"By all means, continue," said Thranduil wryly. "Though you could have said that this was the news you bore last night."

"Such things should not be spoken of at night, not in such a desolate place," replied Gandalf firmly. "I am speaking of it now, and that is enough." Thranduil momentarily paused, before nodding for Gandalf to continue.

"The White Council met recently, and decided that action must be taken against the Necromancer that resided in Dol Guldur. Only a week ago, or a little more, I entered Dol Guldur with the White Council. Together, we drove the Necromancer from the old fortress."

There was a collected intake of breath around the table, and a few of the captains leant forwards towards Gandalf, a poorly disguised spark of hope beginning to flicker amongst them. Thranduil exhaled softly, and nodded.

"I might have known," he murmured. He was attuned to his realm, to the woods, and he had sensed that something had changed recently. "Though you could have come to us as well, Mithrandir, even if it was merely to warn us." Gandalf went to speak, and Thranduil held up one hand. "I am sure it was Noldorin influence from Galadriel," he said. "But some foreknowledge would have been nice."

"If Lord Elrond was involved, I highly doubt that he meant to endanger us," said Legolas diplomatically. He knew Elrond well enough, was good friends with his sons Elladan and Elrohir, and was sure, no matter the politics, that Elrond cared about their realm. "I am sure you had to move swiftly, and if you only took action a week or so ago, then we had already left the realm."

Gandalf laughed roughly, and Legolas held back his own grin as he heard Belhadron chuckle behind him. Thranduil inclined his head. "If we must be diplomatic," he said, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "I trust nobody was hurt in this venture, Mithrandir?" At Gandalf's nod, he relaxed slightly. "We must consider this carefully," he said to his captains. "What affect this will have on the realm once we return."

Gandalf frowned, and shook his head. "That is not all the news that I have brought," he said. "I myself entered Dol Guldur centuries ago, and have cast the Necromancer out before. I had my suspicions then, but now we are all certain, the White Council, of who has been inhabiting the old fortress of your people. And it is not something you will be glad to hear."

"At this point, Mithrandir, we don't care whether it is good news or not," said one of the captains, looking first for permission to speak from his King. "We so often hear the latter that it does not matter much to us anymore."

"This news is not necessarily bad," Gandalf replied. "Not come recent events. But still you will not be glad of it."

"Tell us, Mithrandir, and stop dragging it out," said Belhadron from where he was standing behind Legolas' chair. There were muffled chuckles around the table, but Gandalf's gaze narrowed as he saw the look on Thranduil's face. He watched the Elvenking closely, and Thranduil merely returned the gaze. The pavilion fell silent quickly, the captains well attuned to changes in their King's mood.

Eventually Gandalf sat back and folded his arms in what almost seemed curiosity. "How long have you known?" he asked.

Thranduil smiled, but it was all sharp edges and unnerving. "You have forgotten my age," he said softly. "I've seen him before, and far closer than he was in Dol Guldur. I know his shadow."

Gandalf looked surprised, or as surprised as a wizard may look, and Thranduil slowly shook his head. "Did you think I was blind? I have known for a very long time who occupied Dol Guldur. I saw him outside the Black Gate at the end of the Second Age, saw him throw down Elendil and Gil-Galad. I watched his shadow spread before that. You've seen it too, Mithrandir. You've been watching. Did you not think I would recognise such a shadow when it encroached on my own realm?"

Gandalf huffed. He looked around him at the captains. "You do not seem surprised, any of you. I assume that you are all aware of the Necromancer's true identity as well?"

Legolas inclined his head. "We all suspected it separately for quite a long time," he said. "Though little word was said of it. There was not much we could do, even if we knew our suspicions were correct." He smiled slightly. "It is not that hard to work out."

"Discussions of this can continue at a later date," Thranduil said. "Do not think that I have forgotten, Mithrandir, that you neglected to inform me of much of this, though you have suspected it for a long time. But there are more important things at this moment to consider." He turned to his captains. "Do not lose sight, with this information, of where we are and what we may have to do, before the end. Do not lose your focus."

There were nods from around the table, and then at a wave of the hand from Thranduil, the captains stood and departed. Thranduil's sharp hearing picked up the first murmurs of discussion as soon as they were past the entrance of the small pavilion, but he had faith in his captains. He knew that they would not become so easily distracted. They would not disregard his orders.

He turned to Gandalf, the two of them alone within the pavilion. "No word of Sauron to Bard," he said. "He does not need to be distracted by things far bigger than him at this moment."

Gandalf scowled slightly. "One day we cannot call such things distractions, old friend, for to do so will jeopardise all that we hold dear. You may look at such things and see events that lie far ahead, that may not even come to pass, but still they are present. To ignore them now will only endanger us later on."

Thranduil sighed, and stood from his chair. "If you are going to speak in such riddles, Mithrandir," he said. "Then I am going to need some wine."

0-o-0-o-0

"Who is he?"

Legolas looked over at Bard as they walked through the camp, shaking off his own thoughts of their realm and Dol Guldur. "Mithrandir?" he asked. He sighed thoughtfully. "That is a more difficult question than you might think."

Bard barked a short laugh. "I have grasped that much," he said. "I cannot seem to pinpoint who he is to your King, whether he is a friend or advisor, or even an adversary. His role changes with the wind."

Legolas chuckled. "He is not an adversary, though it may seem like it sometimes. Mithrandir, or Gandalf as men know him by, is what you would call a wizard. He has been on this earth for a very long time now, nearly an Age, and if you do not gain anything else from this conversation, know that he will always, undoubtedly, be on the side of the good."

"Is the side of the good always precisely my side?" asked Bard. "Or yours?" He hadn't missed the tone in Legolas' voice.

Legolas inclined his head. "It depends where you stand," he said. "It depends what you do from here on out. But I think, Bard, you will always have an ally of Mithrandir if you choose."

"How long has Mithrandir known your King?"

Legolas shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "I have known him since I was a child, but he was an old friend of my King's well before then." Bard looked a little sceptical, and Legolas chuckled again. "They may not always seem like it, but they are friends. They just have very different perspectives. Mithrandir does not stay in one place for long. At his heart, he is a wanderer, whereas my King is…well, a King."

Bard nodded, and breathed out. He felt out of his depth. It was worse than that, actually. It was that feeling of having reached down to the bottom of the lake, only to find that the ground was not there. But for the moment, he kept his own thoughts hidden. Others were relying on him.

Legolas shook his head. "You will become used to him in time, I think," he said. "Sometimes, it is best to just not question it."

Bard laughed, though it maybe was a little bitter. It seemed that was all he could do at the moment.

0-o-0-o-0

The day wore on, and each of the elven captains tried not to dwell on what they had heard in the morning. Not many of them were successful, but it wasn't until the evening when they all ended up with some time on their hands. The sun had already set by the time they took over one of the large fires in the camp and settled around it.

"I can't seem to work out whether this is good news or not," muttered one of the captains as he sharpened his sword. "Anyone else got any idea what we're going to do with this information?"

"It's probably good news," pointed out another. "It's not as if the news about his identity is actually news to us. The only thing that has changed is that he has left Dol Guldur. So it's probably good news."

Legolas smiled wryly from where he was sat on a log on one side of the fire, sorting through his quiver and checking the arrows. "We may have orcs coming north, though," he said. "They'll be leaderless, in some regards, and reckless. We'll have to keep an eye on it."

"Were we going to do anything else?" remarked Belhadron with a grin. He was seated on the ground, leaning against Legolas' legs. His whetstone moved rhythmically down his knife, but he seemed to be paying little attention to it. The others around the fire laughed softly.

"As long as we do not have to go back near Dol Guldur."

The soft voice came from nearby, and Belhadron barely restrained himself from flipping his knife as most of them jumped at the figure that had suddenly appeared at the edge of the firelight. Even the captains were not immune to her abilities sometimes.

"You really need to stop doing that, Rhavaniel," muttered Belhadron as he shifted his legs so she could sit down. "One day you might accidentally get stabbed."

Rhavaniel raised one eyebrow as she slipped the hood of her cloak off and shook out her hair from where it had been tied back. "You wouldn't even get close to me," she said. "You know you can't."

There was laughter from the other elves around the fire, and Rhavaniel smiled softly as she pulled a delicate long knife from somewhere hidden on her person. She reached forwards and picked up a rag from the shared pile of cleaning equipment that had assembled between all of them.

"Wait a moment," said one of the others to Rhavaniel. "When were you near Dol Guldur?"

Rhavaniel smiled again, that same strange smile that could mean a thousand things. "It was one of the summers during the Watchful Peace, and I was ordered to take a party scouting to the Old Forest Road."

"I take it those weren't your actual orders," said another. Rhavaniel shook her head.

"My real orders from the King were to go as close to Dol Guldur as possible, and evaluate the danger of the area and what threat it still held to us," she said. "I spent the best part of a month around there."

Belhadron shuddered slightly. "It's not a nice place," he muttered. "I hope we aren't ordered to go back again."

"When did you go?" asked Legolas, looking down at him. "I don't remember that. Also, why did you go? No offense, mellon-nin, but you are a terrible spy."

"I was with Rhavaniel for part of that month, and was there for tracking and added protection, thank you very much," replied Belhadron with a grin. "And it was that summer that you were in Imladris for the entire year when early storms trapped you there in autumn, so you knew nothing about it."

One of the other captains coughed purposefully. "Leave the argument until later," he said with a smirk. "Will we actually have to go there?"

"Are any of us willing to go there anymore?" asked Legolas. "We no longer go near the Southern woods, and they have long since passed out of our realm. If ordered to, then I know that us seven here will do our best, but can we actually ask our companies to follow us?"

"If asked, if the King asked, then we would obey orders," one of them said. Another shook their head.

"I wouldn't be so sure," he murmured. "Even with the Necromancer, or whatever we are going to call him now, gone from Dol Guldur, the forest is darker than ever in the south. I don't even know if it is safe to go that far south anymore."

"I wouldn't count on it," said Rhavaniel quietly. "It was dangerous enough when I was last there, and that was in the middle of the Watchful Peace. I think it would be almost suicidal to try and go too close now. The forest would not be on our side."

"So what do we do?" asked another captain. "Sit around and wait to see what will happen?"

"We watch our borders," replied Legolas. "We send scouting parties as far south as is safe, and make sure no orcs can slip through into our realm. We do what we've always done. I think that's probably the best option."

There were murmurs of agreement from around the fire, and then the conversation turned slowly to lighter things. One of the guards brought Umor over from where he had been patrolling the border, and the big dog went around all of them there, sniffing for food, before flopping down in front of the fire. Rhavaniel chuckled, and reached over to scratch his back, his tail thumping against the ground.

At one point Belhadron dozed off where he was sitting, his head leant back against Legolas' legs. Legolas smiled and leant over, carefully taking the knife out of Belhadron's hand and slipping it into the sheath to one side of him. Belhadron merely turned over slightly, his hair falling across his face as he tucked his legs beneath him. Someone dropped a blade nearby and he jerked, but with a few murmured words from Legolas he settled back down once more.

One of the captains was humming a tune under their breath, and then the rest of them, barring Belhadron, picked it up, words eventually finding their way into the melody. One of them forgot the words and then they were all laughing, the song dissolving and spiralling upwards into the night sky.

Thranduil looked over from where he was standing in the shadows as Gandalf came up to his side. "They look content enough," he said to the Elvenking. His gaze fell to Umor, who was gnawing on a bone one of them had found for him, and he frowned slightly. "The dog…"

"Ah," said Thranduil with a smile. "You want to know the origins of the name?" Gandalf laughed roughly, but nodded.

"He was one of only two pups in a litter, about seven years ago, I think," Thranduil said. "His sister is, according to Legolas, one of our best hunting dogs. She's called, unimaginatively, Morë, obviously because she is black. He wasn't black," Thranduil said with a short laugh. "So they decided to call him Umor." It was a very rough translation of 'not black'.

Gandalf shook his head with a grin. "I take it wine was also involved in this?" Thranduil inclined his head, and the wizard barked out a laugh. A quiet fell for a few moments, as their gaze fell back to the fire in front of them.

Gandalf spoke first. "Is Belhadron actually asleep?" he asked, watching the still form of the elf. Legolas, as they watched, moved Belhadron's cloak, pulling it over him as well as he could when Belhadron was half lying on it. Rhavaniel looked over and smiled, reaching over to gently pull Belhadron's hair away from his face. Belhadron barely stirred.

Thranduil nodded. "He'll do that occasionally, as will Legolas, back home. I've walked into the captain's common room to find one or more of the captains asleep in the chairs in the room, the others merely working around them, more times that I can remember." Of course, they always woke up as soon as he walked in. He smiled slightly, remembering the memorable occasion when, very late in the night after a major operation in the southern woods had just come to an end, he had walked into the room to find Legolas and Belhadron both asleep. They hadn't even made it to the chairs, both of them lying on the thick rug in front of the fire, still wearing their hunting leathers.

It had made him smile, Thranduil remembered, to see Belhadron with his head pillowed on Legolas' leg, both of their cloaks scrunched up beneath his Legolas' head as they slept. Someone had stirred from a chair in the corner, and it had been one of the few times that Rhavaniel had startled Thranduil. She had woken Belhadron and pulled him away to his rooms, whilst Thranduil had gently steered Legolas back to his own bed.

Gandalf was still looking over at them, and Thranduil spoke up once more. "Legolas once told me that they all find it easy enough to fall asleep when they feel safe. Somewhere like this, it will be when they are all together. Belhadron knows that if something happens, one of them will wake him soon enough."

"That makes sense," said Gandalf with a nod. A sudden laugh came from the elves around the fire, and they both looked over. Umor had sprawled across one of the captains with a big sigh, and the captain had nearly fallen backwards off his seat from the weight. Legolas had a broad smile on his face as he said something to Rhavaniel, being careful not to jolt Belhadron as he turned to her. Gandalf smiled at the sight.

"You should be proud, old friend," he said softly. Thranduil hummed in agreement.

"Of Legolas?" he asked. "You know that I am."

"That as well," said Gandalf. "But I was thinking more of yourself. Your son has grown up surrounded by darkness and danger at every step. He's had weapons pressed into his hand as soon as he could hold them."

"You don't need to remind me, Mithrandir," muttered Thranduil.

"No, but you are not seeing the point," replied Gandalf softly. "To raise a child under the threat of such darkness is no mean feat. To raise Legolas to what he is now, to raise a child to become a warrior so defiant of that shadow, is something I would have nearly thought impossible. You should be very proud of yourself, old friend."

Thranduil paused, and then a soft smile curved his lips. "I have not heard such softness from you for a while now, Mithrandir," he said. "You're getting old."

Gandalf laughed. "But I am still right."


	9. No One But Myself

Bard moved through the camp, following the flow of people. The late afternoon sun was weak now as winter swiftly approached, and it was cold. He tugged his coat around him, one of the few good things he had managed to salvage from the wreckage of Laketown.

He wasn't sure if it counted as salvaging if he had been wearing the coat at the time when Smaug had attacked. All it had needed was drying out.

A few elves sidestepped him, talking eagerly amongst themselves as they headed to one edge of the camp. A lot of people were moving that way, and Bard followed, wanting to see what the sudden excitement humming through the camp was about.

He had spent most of the day training with his men. Some of them were good with their weapons, those who had been guards or similar in Laketown, but there were not too many of them. Most of the men were farmers or fishermen and though they were strong, and all had been trained a little at some point, they were no soldiers. Bard, his captains and some of the elves were trying to give them as much of a chance as they could.

Bard rolled out his shoulders as he came to the edge of the camp. The elves were gathering in a loose circle around a bare, flat piece of ground, and they looked excited over something. The men that had followed them were glancing around nervously, and had banded together at one edge of this circle. Bard circled around, and then saw Gandalf standing off to one side.

He joined him at the edge of the loose circle. "What is going on?" he asked softly.

Gandalf, instead of answering, merely nodded at what was happening ahead of them. Bard turned to see the loose crowds part, and then two figures strolled into the centre of the circle.

Legolas was smiling slightly as he stepped forwards. His long blond hair was pulled back in neat braids from his face, and he was without his quiver, only two long white knives at his belt. Belhadron was at his shoulder, and his face was split in a fey grin that had a few of the men stepping back in unease. A sword was at his waist, and his hair was tied back in a loose braid. Both wore their customary greens and browns, though Bard noticed that Legolas' doublet was more intricate, the leather stamped with designs of leaves and vines.

Belhadron stepped forwards and turned to face Legolas. They bowed shortly to each other, and then Legolas' two knives appeared in his hand as Belhadron unsheathed his sword.

"They're sparring," murmured Bard. If he was being honest, he was excited to see this. He had never seen an elf fight before, but they had a reputation for a reason. Even more so the elves of Mirkwood. Bard had heard the stories of them, their ruthlessness and determination, not to mention their skills. He had never thought he would get to see them in action.

Belhadron made the first move. He darted forwards, and Legolas met his thrust with a parry. There was the screech of steel against steel, and then they parted and stepped around each other again. Belhadron laughed, a low purr in his throat, and then it was Legolas that rushed him, knives spinning in his hands.

He reached up with one hand, knife going for Belhadron's throat, whilst the other knife slipped around to his side. Belhadron twisted, and the first blade flicked past him as he twisted his sword, bringing it up and using it to parry away Legolas' knife at his side. He grinned at Legolas, who grinned back, before they parted again.

"They're just warming up," said Gandalf to Bard, his voice low. "It will get even better soon."

A low whine came from nearby, and Bard turned to see the dog that was often with Belhadron or any of the other captains sitting at an elf's feet. It was the first time he had seen the dog wearing a collar and leash, and he was pulling against it, ears pricked as he watched the two elves.

Gandalf followed Bard's gaze. "He's called Umor," he said, his voice low. "He's a hunting and guard dog, really, but the captains took a liking to him, or rather, he took a liking to the captains."

"What does his name mean?" asked Bard.

Gandalf laughed roughly. "'Not black'," he said with a grin. Bard raised his eyebrows at that, but supposed that he had heard stranger names for other animals before. His gaze flicked to the dog, his stocky frame and wiry grey coat, bristling as he strained at the leash, before he looked back to the two elves in front of him. Finishing their second check, they began to circle around, weapons ready.

Belhadron and Legolas sprang at each other, and this time the bout intensified until they were dancing, a whirl of green and brown and steel. It ended with the two of them locked together, and they struggled for control over the twisted blades until, seemingly, both of them conceded at the same time and they stepped apart.

Gandalf grunted in satisfaction as Legolas and Belhadron nodded to each other. One of the elves to one side nudged the wizard, and murmured something in his own tongue. Gandalf laughed abruptly, shaking his head. The elf shrugged, and turned to someone else.

Bard heard the clink of coins, and his gaze turned from watching Legolas and Belhadron turn in a circle as they traded simple blows. "Are they betting on them?" Gandalf nodded, and Bard laughed. And Gandalf's questioning glance, he explained, "It's somewhat nice to know that some things aren't different between elves and men. What are the odds?"

Gandalf turned to one of the elves. "What are your odds?" he asked, remaining in the common tongue.

The elf chuckled. "Have you changed your mind, Mithrandir?" he asked in a lilting accent. "I thought you disapproved of our…how did you put it, idiotic gambling ways?"

"Just give me an answer," grumbled Gandalf good-naturedly.

"Legolas is tipped slightly to win," the elf replied. "Belhadron has been impatient of late." He finished there, as if the rest was easy to understand. Bard supposed that all of the elves here had known Legolas and his second for hundreds of years, and that was all the explanation they needed.

"If you are quite finished betting on us, Mithrandir," called out Legolas.

Belhadron laughed, spinning his sword in his hand. "Me or him?" he asked, his voice heavily accented and the language unfamiliar on his tongue. Gandalf shook his head.

"Neither, if you do not start soon enough," he replied. "Don't be too impatient, Belhadron." At his words, there came a collective groan from the elves around him, and some murmured whispers between them as more coins exchanged hands. They petered off soon enough, though, as Legolas and Belhadron came to face each other.

Both of them grinned, Belhadron looking more feral than anything else, and then they began.

Bard found himself mesmerised. They were faster than he had ever thought they could be, spinning around each other in what looked more like a dance than a sparring match. Legolas flicked his knives out, twisting his wrists and Belhadron crouched down. He swung his sword in a wide arc, but Legolas jumped and twisted out of the way. He landed nimbly on the balls of his feet and brought down both his knives, but Belhadron blocked them and pushed himself up. Legolas' knives slipped from his sword, and then they clashed together once more.

Bard looked over at Gandalf in amazement as Legolas ducked under Belhadron's blade and came up with both knives aiming for his throat. Belhadron flung himself backwards, narrowly avoiding the blades. "How do they not injure themselves doing this?"

"It happens, sometimes," remarked Gandalf in a low voice as Legolas tripped, rolling across the floor to avoid Belhadron's blade. There were a few gasps from the men, and an appreciative murmur or two from amongst the elves as he came swiftly to his feet and parried another blow.

"There is a tally going between them," murmured one of the elves to Bard. "It is recorded in the captains' common room, I think. If it becomes too unbalanced then one of them has to clean all of the other's weapons, or some such thing. But they will be careful now, in case they need to actually fight later on."

They didn't look careful, thought Bard as he watched. Belhadron kicked out with one heel, just enough force behind the blow to trip Legolas when he caught his leg. Legolas rolled back, but his hands twisted so that when he came up once more, they were there to parry Belhadron's blow.

They sprang apart, and for a moment eyed each other warily. Belhadron spun his sword in his hand, and then Legolas crouched slightly on the balls of his feet. In the next moment they both sprang forwards at each other.

Belhadron's sword came round, but at the last moment Legolas ducked and slid under the blow, dust flying up around him as he twisted. He brought his knives up and Belhadron had to fling himself backwards. As he did, Legolas flicked out one of his knives. Bard was sure he was going to catch Belhadron with the blade, but at the last minute he twisted the blade sideways and it was the flat of it that hit Belhadron's leg.

Belhadron tried to avoid it, but Legolas was faster, and he fell to the ground, coming down on his shoulder. Bard winced. "Surely he could dislocate his shoulder with that fall?" he asked Gandalf in a low voice.

Gandalf shrugged, watching as Belhadron swiftly scrambled to his feet, his blade still in his hand. "Their hunting leathers have some protection built into them," he murmured. "He could, but Legolas judged the blow and Belhadron the fall well enough so that nothing would happen. Besides, they aren't going at fast enough speeds to do any damage." Bard raised his eyebrows at that, but his attention soon turned back to the two elves.

There came the clash of steel as Legolas' knives met Belhadron's sword. They struggled for a moment over control of the crossed blades. Belhadron grinned, and then suddenly he had sprung free of Legolas' knives. Legolas staggered briefly as the sudden loss of contact, and Bard could scarcely follow Belhadron as he jumped up, body twisting as his sword swung in one hand.

Legolas barely avoided the sword, and Bard turned to Gandalf. "Is Legolas still tipped to win?" he asked softly.

Gandalf smiled slightly. "Belhadron is less impatient that they thought he would be," he said. "But Legolas has not made his move yet. When he does, then we shall see."

"How do these bouts usually end?"

"Belhadron will grow impatient, most of the time, and rush Legolas. From there it depends on a lot of different things, and not least a little luck. The knives were not Legolas' original weapons of choice, and he will always be an archer at heart. Belhadron has always fought with the sword, but in close sparring, knives are far more useful. Belhadron is stronger, but Legolas is faster. It could go either way."

Bard nodded, and his gaze turned back to the bout. Belhadron and Legolas sprang apart briefly, and a murmur went up amongst the elves watching as they watched each other warily. For a moment, they were completely still, two predators eyeing each other before they pounced.

Bard held his breath, recognising this for the final deciding moment. Belhadron grinned, and Legolas smiled back. They leapt forwards at the same time, and their blades clashed together.

Bard could not follow them as they moved. Legolas was indeed faster, but what gain he had in speed was evened out by the power behind each of Belhadron's blows. There was silence around them. They were fighting on their own now, so apart from those surrounding them that everyone else felt like they were watching through a window. They were intruding on something they maybe weren't meant to see.

Legolas was on the floor, but then he jumped up and it was Belhadron rolling across the ground as he avoided Legolas' knives. He came back to his feet and then went on the attack. Legolas was pressed back under the onslaught of his blows, and Bard could not see how Belhadron would not win the match as Legolas tripped, going down to one knee.

He was wrong. Legolas rolled forwards and then somehow managed to come back behind Belhadron, one knife already heading for his side as Belhadron twisted. He narrowly avoided the knife, but it was Legolas pressing forwards now, his blades a blur of grey steel. Belhadron stepped back as he parried as swiftly as he could, blocking first one knife and then the other.

"This is it," murmured Gandalf, and Legolas surged forwards with both his knives. Belhadron parried one and ducked around the other, and then his sword swung round under Legolas' guard. Legolas caught it on one of his knives and then the two of them were locked together. With a shriek of steel Belhadron disarmed Legolas, sending one of his knives spinning across the ground.

Legolas stepped back quickly and switched his remaining knife into his right hand. Without warning he pushed forwards relentlessly, striking blow after blow against Belhadron until Belhadron, with bared teeth, lunged forwards. Legolas dropped and darted sideways, and then suddenly he was behind Belhadron. He kicked out, knocking Belhadron's leg out from underneath him, and then with an arm around Belhadron's neck, threw him over his shoulder. Belhadron twisted and pulled Legolas off balance, but Legolas was still faster and as Belhadron thudded into the ground, Legolas fell on top of him. Belhadron bucked up, twisting to try and dislodge him, but then there was a knife in Legolas' hand. It pressed down slightly on the pale skin of Belhadron's exposed throat.

There was a moment of utter stillness. Legolas was crouched over Belhadron, who was tensed on the ground, completely still. It reminded Bard of when he had seen two dogs fight, once, and the winner had bared its teeth over the throat of the other.

And then both of them relaxed at the same time. Belhadron let out a short laugh as Legolas let his knife drop to one side, and he dropped his sword. He reached up and then collared Legolas in a headlock, grinning as Legolas squirmed in his grip.

The men around them exchanged nervous glances. The elves laughed. Belhadron kept his grip on Legolas for a moment more, and then released him. Getting to his feet, Legolas held out a hand and pulled Belhadron up to standing. They both laughed at each other, scuffed clothes and snarled hair.

Their weapons were lying discarded, and both of them turned for them. Bard was close to Legolas' knife, the first one he had dropped, and he went to pick it up for him.

Suddenly Belhadron was standing opposite, already reaching for the knife. His hand closed around the white handle and he looked up at Bard, a tight smile on his face that didn't reach his eyes. Bard paused, and then drew back.

Legolas called something over one shoulder and Belhadron's face instantly changed. His attention switched from Bard and he said something back, throwing his knife over to him. Legolas passed him over his sword, and then the elves, recognising the bout was over, began to filter away. More than a few called out to Legolas and Belhadron in their own tongue, clapping them on the back with grins. The elf holding Umor's leash released it upon the insistent tugs of the dog, and he bounded over to the two of them.

Belhadron laughed and crouched down, catching Umor's leash as the dog launched himself at him. Belhadron grabbed him and half lifted him up with a grin, trying to avoid Umor's tongue as he squirmed in his grasp. Legolas shook his head with a chuckle, before reaching out to greet the dog himself. Belhadron pulled himself to his feet. He slung one arm over Legolas' shoulder as they stopped to talk to Gandalf, the rich language flowing so easily from their tongues. Bard smiled as Legolas ruffled Belhadron's hair with a grin, Belhadron trying to duck out of the way and failing.

For a moment, Bard wondered if he could ever learn to fight with such skill, with their unearthly speed. His life, his years, seemed so very little compared to their centuries, and for a moment, before he made himself focus on the tasks at hand, he found himself wondering what it would be like to live forever.

0-o-0-o-0

Thranduil smiled slightly behind his glass of wine as he watched the camp. He was standing in the doorway of his tent, and from where he was standing he could see most of the camp in front of him. His elves, those not on duty, had congregated around the great fires. They were talking and laughing, some of them singing another common song within his halls. Bard's men were dotted in amongst them, and Thranduil could hear the Westron amongst his own tongue.

Legolas came to stand at his side. "They seem content enough," remarked Thranduil. Legolas nodded.

"I think the sparring bout had a good effect on the morale of Bard's men," he replied. "And the training is keeping mostly everyone active enough for now."

Thranduil chuckled softly. "I watched the bout," he said. "Though you did not see me. I am not sure whether the men were more impressed or terrified. But you were slow, letting Belhadron get you on the ground at least twice. You do need to watch your left side sometimes. You can leave it open."

Legolas laughed softly. "I know," he replied. "We're working on it. And I had Belhadron on the ground at least as many times as he threw me down." He grinned softly. "The men did seem somewhat apprehensive at times. I think both of us were a little…"

"Bored?" asked Thranduil with one raised eyebrow. A startled laugh slipped from Legolas' lips, before he nodded.

"Quite possibly," he answered.

Thranduil smiled softly, and gripped Legolas' shoulder. "Do not lose your focus," he said in warning. "I am all too glad to see you smiling, to see some cheer in this desolate place, but remember what may be coming in the next few days." He would never forgive himself is his own inattention to his people and his son cost him their lives.

Legolas nodded. "We will not forget," he promised. "Rhavaniel is coming back in soon, and I am heading out now to check on the scouts on the eastern scree. We will be ready."

Thranduil nodded, his hand sliding from Legolas' shoulder. "Good," he said. "I also would like a comprehensive report of the supplies we currently have, weapons included, tomorrow. If we are to stay here for longer we may need to arrange for more to be sent down the river from home."

"I'll see to it," replied Legolas. "Well, I won't, but someone will." He inclined his head, not quite a bow but not merely a nod. "I should go. There are things that need doing."

Thranduil smiled slightly. "If you see Mithrandir, tell him yes, I have thought of that, and no, it's still not a feasible idea." Legolas nodded. After centuries of knowing Mithrandir, he was fairly used to messages like those just given. He turned and left, heading outside of the circle of light that was the camp, and into the dark, towards the mountain. Thranduil watched until the light no longer glinted off the blond hair swinging around his shoulder and he was lost from his sight, for now.

0-o-0-o-0

On the slopes of the mountain it was near silent. The whole area was desolate, jagged rocks and the occasional stunted bush, a light dusting of snow covering the frozen ground. Birds seemed to stay away from the area, perhaps having learnt that there was no reward for them if they did dare come near.

Though she did not need to, Rhavaniel still checked for watchful eyes before moving and shifting the cloak around her. She had spent a large portion of her life under the gaze of the southern woods of Mirkwood, and though out here she knew nobody could see her, she'd long since developed the habit of checking.

She sighed slightly, and pulled out a handful of dried fruit from a pocket on the bag at her feet. Her long knife, a dark grey and brown handle in a muted leather sheath, sat to one side, and her bow was on the other. It paid to be prepared, and she had learnt that many times over the years.

Rhavaniel chewed on a dried strip of fruit, and her eyes flickered over the mountain once more. The orange light of torches was just visible, to her sharp eyes, flickering against the dark stone. She had been watching for most of the day now, very used to sitting still and merely paying attention. She had spent her time learning what rotations of their guards she could see, figuring out what weaknesses she could expose. There were only fourteen of them. If they could make it past the front gates that had been so heavily fortified, then it would be easy enough.

It was her job to think of this, her job to look at the mountain and see flaws and strengths, points of entry and areas they should avoid. There weren't many mountain fortresses in Mirkwood, but in the tangled southern forests it was surprisingly similar, and she had spent longer than nearly anyone in the darkest parts that the elves would still tread.

There came the soft tread of feet from below her, and Rhavaniel's hand tightened around the handle of her knife. She shifted forwards, but the footsteps were familiar and all too light to be anything but an elf. Her hand relaxed as Legolas came into view, trudging up the scree to her position.

Legolas had his hood up, his blond hair hidden, and he glanced up with a smile as Rhavaniel got to her feet. "You've been up here for most of the day," he said. "Time to come in."

Rhavaniel inclined her head, a wry smile flitting across her face. "I suppose you are heading over to the eastern scree?" she asked. "There won't be much for any of them to report. It's been quiet, as usual."

Legolas' gaze turned to the mountain. "I suppose it will be for a while yet," he replied. "And yes, I am heading over to them now. I'll be back in before midnight."

"Take care," said Rhavaniel as she picked up her weapons and pack, slinging the latter over her shoulder and keeping her knife in her hand. She smiled wryly. "I would hate for my scouts to shoot you by accident."

Legolas laughed softly. "They are your scouts. I think that speaks for itself." Rhavaniel's scouts, or more accurately, spies, were the elite of the realm. There were only about ten dozen of them in total, all with the mottled grey cloaks that were distinctive from any other elves, but that helped them disappear when needed. Rhavaniel was the best of them, of course, but they could all vanish from sight easily enough if they wanted to. Likewise, they would know easily that it was Legolas approaching, long before he would be able to see any of them.

Rhavaniel jumped neatly down onto the scree slope below them. "Anything happen that I need to know about?" she asked as she turned back to face Legolas. The blond elf shrugged.

"Belhadron and I sparred," he said with a grin. "It was as much for show for the men, as it was for ourselves. There's a difference in the camp now, I think. You'll see for yourself when you get back."

Rhavaniel chuckled softly. "If you are telling me about it, then you must have beaten him," she said with a smile. "He must have been quite bored to spar with an audience of men."

"I think he also did enjoy scaring them a little," Legolas said with a grin. "But it should have cleared his head, at least for a while. He's starting to become frustrated with all of this." He shook his head with a wry smile.

"It's Belhadron we are talking about. I really wouldn't be surprised." Rhavaniel cocked her head, watching Legolas with sharp eyes. "And he isn't the only one, is he?"

Legolas huffed a laugh. "I'm a little irritated, but I know all we can do is wait it out and prepare for whatever happens. I think that mountain is getting into most of our minds, one way or another." He glanced up above him at the dark silhouette above. "I should head on. Try not to scare the men who are on the perimeter, if you can."

Rhavaniel chuckled, and shifted her pack on her shoulders. "I will try," she said. "You know I sometimes forget. And I will check in on Belhadron, if I can. The others as well." She turned back to head down towards the camp, the darkness reaching out to envelop her.

"Rhavaniel." She stopped at Legolas' soft voice and turned back towards him, a silent question on her face.

"What about you?" he asked quietly, glancing up at the mountain once more. The corners of Rhavaniel's lips curved up in a wry smile.

"You know me, Legolas," she said as she turned away once more, the night opening its arms to her. "My mind belongs to no one but myself."


	10. Trust Issues

Rhavaniel slipped back into camp not long after she left Legolas, avoiding the perimeter guards just to see if she could. She spent so much time under the boughs of Mirkwood, surrounded by her forest, that her skills in the barren land around them were not what she would like. It took her a few minutes, but soon she stepped into the camp without a single elf noticing her presence, and a smile curved her lips as she did so.

She flipped back her hood as she came into the lit area of the camp, and made a conscious decision to walk through the orange light falling across the ground. It was easy for her to forget, slip back into the mindset she wore when she was scouting for the King. It was easy for the shadows to become familiar, but she knew she could startle some people if she let it slip her mind.

She reported to the King first, telling him of the little more she had learnt over the day, and then she went to find the other captains. They were in the same place as they were last night, though two of them were out on the perimeter and Legolas was up with her scouts on the eastern slopes. Belhadron looked up, and then shifted his feet so she could sit down. One of the others offered her a glass and a dash of wine that had been warmed over the fire.

She watched the fire, swirling the wine in her hand without taking a sip. It had been burning for a while now, and the logs were charred and blackened within the stones, crackling softly until, with a crash, one gave out and they fell down in an eruption of sparks and golden flames.

There was the soft rustle of someone moving and then Belhadron nudged her, stilling her glass with one hand. Rhavaniel blinked.

"Don't lose yourself," Belhadron said, his tone light. He had said the same thing many times before, over the centuries. Rhavaniel's job was a solitary one, for the most part, and it was all too easy for her to become stuck within herself. If she did, though, it would usually only take a few words from one of the others to bring her back to the present. They watched out for each other in that way.

She, Legolas and Belhadron had known each other for the longest, for over centuries, but all the captains had known each other, all lived around each other for far too long to not become attuned to their moods. They all knew the warning signs when it came to Belhadron, when to talk him down or give him a task, and when to put away the breakable objects in the room and make sure Legolas was around. They knew which events may trigger nightmares for one of the others, and how to wake him up safely.

Rhavaniel had learnt a long time ago that none of them should be startled awake if possible. She knew that Belhadron could usually tell whether to nudge her out of her own thoughts, or whether, on a rare and particularly bad day, he should just make sure the chair with the best sightlines was left for her. They all knew when Legolas began spending too much time alone on the practice fields with his bow that they needed to make him take some time off, and that on a bad day, it was best to just quietly mention it in a conversation with their King.

It was a worn system by now, but it worked well. Such days when they needed to think of these things were rare, because they all had a job to do, but they had been fighting for too long to not be left with these little things.

There was the sound of footsteps, heavier than any elf, and the captains looked up as Gandalf stepped into the circle of light thrown out by the fire. Belhadron shifted off the log he was sat on to make room for the wizard. He came to sit in front of Rhavaniel, leaning back against her legs with his knees held loosely to his chest.

Gandalf sat down, and took the glass of wine that one of the others offered him. He sniffed it, and Belhadron laughed. "Do you think we would have anything but excellent wine?" he asked.

Gandalf raised one eyebrow. "I hardly think Thranduil is going to be very lenient with the wine in his cellar, after the whole debacle with the Dwarves' escape." He took a sip of the wine, and nodded, seemingly satisfied with the quality.

"That was hardly our fault," said one of the others with a grimace. "I mean, sure, Galion messed up a bit, but they shouldn't have been able to get out of their cells in the first place. Something suspicious happened, and it wasn't our doing."

"Even you cannot pick the locks of those cells," said Belhadron to Rhavaniel, leaning his head back to look at Gandalf. "I highly doubt the Dwarves could have done it."

"They would have needed the keys," said one of the two captains on the other side of the fire. "But then the keys never left the guard captain who was entrusted with them."

Rhavaniel hummed softly, and Gandalf looked over at her. "You disagree?" he asked.

"I have my own ideas," said Rhavaniel in her soft voice. "But it's a little late for speculation now." Belhadron shifted against her legs, and almost without thinking about it her hands went to his hair and she began to braid it, fingers working deftly as she pulled it into loose sections. Belhadron tilted his head forwards slightly to let her work.

They stayed that way for a little while, the four captains and Gandalf around the fire. Rhavaniel would finish a braid and then undo it, beginning something else, the others occasionally giving her a specific one to do. At one point she became hopelessly lost. One of the others, with a laugh, got up from where he was sat and finished off the braid for her.

Belhadron was leaning back against Rhavaniel's legs, his hair tied back in its usual plait, when Bard wandered over. One of the other captains welcomed him, and Bard sat down amongst the four of them and Gandalf, talking easily with the wizard. Rhavaniel didn't miss how Belhadron tensed slightly as the man sat down at the fire.

He turned to Rhavaniel. "I don't think we have been properly introduced, captain," he said, his voice gruff but somewhat relaxed. Rhavaniel had moved ahead of the army, scouting the area around Erebor before they had arrived, and so had not even been seen much by Bard. In whatever meetings amongst the captains she had been quiet and at the edge of them, and they had, strangely, never talked. "Though you know who I am."

Rhavaniel smiled and leant forwards, clasping his outstretched arm in greetings. "My name is Rhavaniel," she said, her Westron flawless. "Captain of the King's scouts and the vanguard." Belhadron coughed slightly, hastily muffling a chuckle at the term Rhavaniel was using now for spies. But she was, as usual, right: it would not be a good idea to reveal to Bard that the elf sitting across from him was in command of people who were watching pretty much everything within and around this camp.

Bard nodded in understanding, and Rhavaniel was fairly sure that he knew more than she had told him. Thranduil had not told him her specific role, she knew that, but she could also tell that he was a smart man and could have guessed anyway.

"How are your men?" asked one of the others. "How is training going?"

"As well as can be expected," replied Bard with a shrug. He looked over at Belhadron. "Your bout earlier with Legolas certainly helped their confidence. It was very impressive."

Belhadron ducked his head in acknowledgement. "My thanks," he said, but his voice was brittle and completely unlike how he had been talking earlier. As one of the others asked Bard something and the conversation turned away, he muttered something under his breath in his own tongue.

Gandalf didn't hear what he said, but Rhavaniel obviously did. Without being obvious she dug her heel into his side. "Don't be so narrow minded," she chided in their own language.

"What?" protested Belhadron, but at her glare he subsided. She could feel him sitting tense against her legs, ready to stand at a moment's notice, and followed his gaze to Bard, who was talking with one of the others over the training of his men.

Belhadron didn't relax for the rest of the time that Bard was there, and soon enough he excused himself, stalking off into the dark. He didn't move into it like she did, had never had the knack of moving around the light, but he was still formidable. She couldn't see his face, but judging by the few men that almost jumped out of his way, he was in a mood once again.

0-o-0-o-0

It was past midnight when he returned, and the captains had left the fire to go to their own tents, or to relieve the others on duty. In the dead hours of the very early morning the camp was nearly empty as Belhadron strode down past dark silhouettes of tents. Umor was with him, padding quietly by his side, and it was perhaps because of the dog that his hand was not resting on his sword.

After handing Umor over to one of the guards for the night, he reached one of the tents and knocked on the post. It was more as a courtesy than anything, as he ducked inside nearly straight away afterwards.

"Give it back."

Rhavaniel looked up from where she had been reading over some scroll of parchment. "Give what back?"

"Don't start that," said Belhadron with gritted teeth. "Give it back."

Rhavaniel smiled wryly, and then reached down to her belt and pulled out the short knife with the ash handle. Belhadron all but snatched it from her hands. "It's not funny this time," he said shortly.

Rhavaniel raised one eyebrow. "I didn't take it because I thought it would be funny," she said. "I took it because you were being foolish and narrow-minded, earlier."

"What I said was true," Belhadron pointed out. "If this comes to a battle, then those men out there are nowhere near ready. You know that."

"That's not the point," Rhavaniel pointed out smoothly. "And I know Bard didn't understand you, but you cannot go and mutter such things under your breath when we might be sitting only days away from a battle, if not an all out war. You really do know better than that, mellon-nin."

Belhadron shook his head, and it was a sign of how long they had been around each other that Rhavaniel saw the gesture for what it really was, what it was attempting to hide. She chuckled, amused, and Belhadron looked at her pointedly, waiting for an explanation.

"You would think that, out of the two of us, it would be the spy captain who would have the trust issues," she said. "And yet here you are."

Belhadron's jaw worked as he clenched his teeth, but he didn't deny anything, and that was as good an answer as any. Rhavaniel sat down on her cot. "Legolas mentioned to me that you don't like Bard. I don't quite think he's got it right."

Belhadron heaved a sigh, and then collapsed gracefully to sit on the floor opposite her. "I don't trust him," he said. "There's a difference. Have you seen how much rests on him? All we are doing is offering him our support, and because of it, we might get drawn into a war."

"We've been at war for centuries already," replied Rhavaniel. "It's a little different this time, but I don't think that's quite it." They'd all had plenty of time to become accustomed to the presence of war, the inevitability of battle.

"It's worse not quite knowing," muttered Belhadron. He smoothed his hands down his legs, pulling his knees up close to his chest. "But I can't trust Bard, can't trust that he knows what he's doing or that he's doing the right thing. And if he doesn't do the right thing, then all of this has a very good chance of falling down around us."

"And you can't trust his men to fight," continued Rhavaniel. "If they don't, if they turn and run at the sight of battle, or even if they aren't good enough, then we're all in even more danger."

Belhadron nodded slightly. Of course, they were in danger whenever they went into battle. But in Mirkwood they all knew each other. They all knew their capabilities, and whatever happened, they knew that had done all they could. And now there were so many unknowns suddenly involved.

"That accursed mountain is making everything worse," murmured Belhadron. "You feel it as well, don't you? The emptiness, for lack of a better word. It's put me on edge, for some reason, and I can't shake it."

"I know," said Rhavaniel. "And I do feel it. I'm just a lot more used to it, or to something similar. But you need to keep your head."

Belhadron chuckled. "You really don't have to tell me that." He sighed slightly, pushing one hand through his hair. "I just…"

"You really don't trust easily, do you?" asked Rhavaniel with a smile.

Belhadron nodded reluctantly. He was on edge, had been ever since the men had gotten involved and he had seen just how much they stood to lose if this went wrong. And he couldn't trust Bard. It made everything more difficult.

Rhavaniel stood, and offered him a hand. "I don't have any advice," she said. "We're all terrible at trying to solve issues like this anyway. But for what it's worth, Bard is a good man, and I trust him as much as I trust anyone who isn't one of us."

"You've known him for less than two weeks," said Belhadron. "He only found out your name tonight. How can you possibly know he is a good man?"

Rhavaniel laughed. "Have you forgotten my job?" she asked. "He may not know me, but I have been watching him for quite a while now, along with anyone else I thought important in Esgaroth. He's grim, but the people around him have always trusted his judgement. He knows how to fight. His father taught him as much as he could before he died, of their history and other things, so he is fairly well educated. He has good instincts, though he can tend towards the worst outcomes, thinking of how to deal with them before thinking of what he can do to prevent such outcomes. He doubts himself, at the moment, and I don't blame him. He's been rather pushed into all of this. It was only two weeks ago that he brought down Smaug. But he's willing to hide it all if it keeps his men confident." She smiled wryly. "He's learning."

Belhadron huffed a sigh, and then grabbed her hand and pulled himself to his feet. Rhavaniel briefly grasped his arm as he turned to leave.

"I know you don't like this," she said. "I don't, either. You're also bored and frustrated, and with you it makes for a fairly volatile combination. I don't need to tell you to keep your focus on what's important. You know that. But deal with it. We're stuck here until it's over. Put up with it and stop making snide comments."

Belhadron chuckled bitterly. "Thanks for the knife," was all he said, as he turned and left in a flurry of cold winter air.

0-o-0-o-0

It was raining the next day, and the camp was slowly turning muddy. Bard envied the elves. They walked on top of the mud, their feet barely leaving imprints, whilst he was left trying to scrape the cloying stuff off his boots before he started sliding.

Nevertheless, his men were training with the elves. Belhadron and Legolas were sparring once again, though this time they were taking men through simple hand-to-hand moves that might end up saving their lives. They'd found a flat area that was bare rock, and had covered it in spare cloaks and blankets, a few mattresses they'd borrowed, and anything else that could soften a fall. For now, the moves were merely slow repetitions of what the men would practice later, but Bard could tell there was a wired tension shared between the two of them, a restlessness. They would be properly sparring soon enough.

He watched them for a while, noting the men who were more eager to participate and those who were hanging back. Various ideas were forming in his head already, about who he could put together and where, about who would stand at the forefront of an army and who would probably be better at the back. He had his captains already, had those few men who seemed to have an unwavering loyalty to him, but there was still much to plan.

An elf brushed past him, and he recognised Rhavaniel. She looked different than she had last night, flitting through the groups of men and elves like they were hardly there. Bard thought for a moment, and then moved quickly after her.

"Rhavaniel," he called out, reaching to tap her on the shoulder. Rhavaniel turned, and for a brief moment Bard thought she might copy one of Legolas' moves and flip him over her shoulder. In the next second, she relaxed.

"Bard," she said in greetings. "A word of advice, if I may. I wouldn't grab any of the captains by the shoulder to get our attention. We would mean no harm, of course, but it might not end well for you or anyone else if you startle us."

Bard nodded. "Of course," he said, holding up his hands. "Sorry."

Rhavaniel laughed softly, shaking her head. "Do not be," she replied easily. "It's a bad habit for us, nothing more. Did you want something?"

"Yes, actually, I did." Bard moved away, Rhavaniel with him, and he began to walk away from the busier areas of the camp. "I wanted to talk to you about the systems that they seem to have place up at Erebor, their fortifications and defences. What do you think of them, and possible ways around them?"

Rhavaniel smiled, but the expression could have meant a hundred different things. "Why should I know about these things?" she asked Bard. "Why not ask Legolas, or the King?"

"Because you are the captain of your King's spies, are you not?" asked Bard. Rhavaniel blinked, and he chuckled slightly. "I noticed. None of the other captains move quite the way as you do. Besides, Gandalf may have slipped and mentioned you in passing at some point. After that, I watched more closely."

Rhavaniel smiled. "I noticed that. I thought that you might have a suspicion of my real job, but I did not think you would work it out so quickly. I am sorry that I did not tell you, but orders are orders, and I did not want to add to your worries."

"Well, I suppose I should thank you for that," Bard replied, though he wasn't sure he meant it. He knew that there was most likely far more to it, but he found himself, surprisingly, not caring all that much. He knew that whatever Rhavaniel's job, she worked for her King, and Thranduil was his ally. Whatever information she gained, would be used to their advantage.

Maybe he was just tired of being suspicious of people. He wasn't sure.

"To answer your question," said Rhavaniel. "Their defences are strong. They are Dwarves. They know how to work stone. They have good positions to keep watch from, but at the moment, it seems a little lax, with only one watching at a time. It's quite possible that one or two people could scale the defences and get inside, if it was timed right. What resistance would be found once we were within, I don't know."

Bard nodded. "I'm assuming that you mean elves, when you say people," he said. "So we have a good chance at being able to wait them out? Good."

Rhavaniel frowned slightly. "Why is it that you ask me?" she asked. "I know why you have asked me specifically, because of my job, but why do you wish to know?"

"I want to be as prepared as possible," replied Bard determinedly. "Laketown is in ruins, and a lot of good people are dead, because of what the Dwarves let loose upon us. Thorin Oakenshield should pay for the damage he has caused, and at the moment, he seems very unlikely to do that. So we must be prepared for any eventuality."

Rhavaniel nodded. "You do not want vengeance, then?" she asked softly.

"I want payment," replied Bard. "I want the people here, those still on the shores of the lake, to be safe and have a home. I'm sure for a lot of my men vengeance does play a part, and it probably does for me as well, but I just want to get what we came for and go home." He laughed bitterly. "Go back and rebuild our home is more apt, I think."

"Good," murmured Rhavaniel. At Bard's raised eyebrow, she inclined her head and elaborated. "I first started in this job because of vengeance, in a way. I called it justice, but it was not the same. And it nearly killed me quite a few times before I learned. I'm not saying Oakenshield should not pay, because he should, but you do need to be careful. It's very easy to cross over from payment to vengeance, and then you can't ever be settled until you let it go." She smiled crookedly. "That's a lot harder than it sounds."

"I'm sure I will be fine," Bard said. "I just want to keep my people safe, and get them home." He smiled wryly. "But I appreciate the honesty. I thought you, out of any of the captains, would be most inclined to play the game of politics."

Rhavaniel inclined her head with a chuckle. "I am good at playing the game. That does not mean I enjoy it. At heart, all of us captains are soldiers. We will speak plainly, if we can."

Bard laughed. "I think that is going to become something I will miss, eventually. Thank you for your opinion, and your advice."

Rhavaniel nodded. "I am glad I could help," she said smoothly. "If you need anything else, Legolas will know where to find me." She bowed slightly to him, and then turned away. Soon enough, she had drifted out of his sight.

Bard shook his head, and then turned back to where his men were slowly practising fighting techniques. Legolas was moving among them, commenting on what he saw, whilst Belhadron stood to one side, watching with folded arms and a slight frown.

Bard didn't know what to think of these elves. Legolas appeared straightforward enough, but he was fairly sure Belhadron didn't like him, and he couldn't pin down Rhavaniel. She seemed like a decent person, a good captain, but given her actual job he wasn't sure whether that was just an act. If it was, it was a ridiculously good one, but he didn't trust easily on principle. She was a spy, and he didn't doubt that she had many different masks that she could wear.

But, like he thought earlier, he was tired of looking for the hidden motives within people. The elves were their allies, and maybe that was enough for him to trust them.

Belhadron called Legolas over, murmuring something to him as his eyes flickered over the men. Legolas listened, and watched the men as he nodded to whatever Belhadron was saying. After a few moments, he strode back amongst them. Even from where Bard was standing, some distance away, he could see the measured stride of a soldier, a honed warrior, and he knew that none of his men, nor him, could ever live to move like that.

Belhadron was smirking from where he was watching, at something Legolas had called back over his shoulder to him in their own lyrical tongue. As Bard watched, he shook his head with a grin, before his gaze followed Legolas once more.

Bard had noticed early on how Belhadron's gaze wasn't usually far from Legolas, and guessed that he would easily take down anything that served as a threat to the blond captain. And yet he wasn't sure whether it was Belhadron or Rhavaniel he should be warier of.

He was sure both of them could easily kill him, yet it seemed like if he weren't a threat to Legolas, then Belhadron would merely ignore his presence. Rhavaniel seemed to have more of a focus on the larger picture. Even though she had been perfectly pleasant to him, if he began to get in the way of any plans Bard was fairly sure that she could quietly make him disappear.

He shook his head. The mountain was getting inside his head, unsettling him and feeding mindless paranoia. He should not even be thinking of such things. With a sigh, he ran his hand through his hair and moved away into the camp.

From nearby, Gandalf watched him go with a frown. There was a lot on the man's shoulders. He rather hoped that they would hold under the strain.


	11. The Armour of Elf-Princes

The days passed slowly, amongst training and sparring, and slow wandering around the camp's perimeter when there was nothing better for them to do. Gandalf watched them all, the Elves and the men amongst them, the mountain off in the distance. He also did not have much better to do. A lot of those things he had planned for, the removal of Sauron from Dol Guldur, had already happened. Now he was just waiting for the next move to be made.

It was dark, and six days since the elves had first arrived outside the mountain. Gandalf took a seat at the edge of one of the fires, the one that the captains had seemingly claimed as their own. Three of them were already there, sharing out food between them from something hanging over the fire. Umor was at their feet, as usual. As Gandalf watched Legolas came up, seemingly just from patrolling the perimeter. The others all hid their own food behind their backs with sly laughs, and Legolas rolled his eyes. He grabbed some of his own and sat down with them, Umor greeting him enthusiastically.

Gandalf smirked as Legolas still managed to end up with one of the other captain's apples. The blond elf looked up and saw Gandalf. "Mithrandir," he said with a smile. "You do not have to sit in the shadows all the time. Have you eaten?"

Gandalf huffed a laugh, but moved over to the rest of them anyway. "What is it?"

"Whatever he managed to cook up," said the captain opposite him. She pointed over at one of the other captains who was sitting by the pot hanging over the fire. "He's our designated cook for now."

The other laughed. "Just be glad it isn't someone else," he said, handing a bowl to Gandalf. "At least I can actually cook."

"Well…" said Legolas, and then laughed when the captain glared at him half-heartedly. "It is good, Mithrandir, really. And I'm not just saying that because I'll end up with bruises otherwise." He took a bite from his apple, grinning at the one he stole it from.

The captain shook his head with a smile. Umor huffed at his feet, and pushed his nose into the captain's hand. "At least you like it," the captain said to him, ruffling his fur. "But then you like anything if it is food." Umor licked his hand in agreement.

They stayed around the fire for a while, talking about things that needed to be done tomorrow and in the days to come, tentative plans for the people of Esgaroth who were camped still on the shores of the Long Lake. As it had been for the past few days, the mood was light, for there was still not much to do outside Erebor. They were merely waiting.

Umor suddenly raised his head, his ears pricked. The captains looked up. There was the sound of slightly hurried footsteps, and then Belhadron stalked down towards the fire. "We have a problem," he said, his voice low. "You know the creature that is a companion of the Dwarves, the one that we've never actually seen?"

Gandalf straightened up. "Bilbo?" he asked, not quite keeping the worry out of his voice. Belhadron nodded shortly.

"It's just been found," he said. "Five or so furlongs inside the scout's perimeter."

"What?" asked one of the captains. "How is that even possible? Those are Rhavaniel's scouts."

"Who found him?" asked Legolas.

"A regular patrol of a few elves," replied Belhadron. "And only because the creature apparently slipped and fell into one of the streams. They're bringing it in now."

Legolas stood up. "Belhadron, go to my father and tell him of this. Mithrandir, you'd get the most information if you went with him. Get a message to Rhavaniel, if you can."

One of the others stood up. "I'll go out to the scouts by the mountain and have them brought in," she said. "Someone will need to send out new ones to the furthest positions."

"I'll see it is done," said another. "Legolas, do you want to bring this creature in under guard or not?"

Legolas shook his head. "I'll go and meet the patrol now," he replied. "But we don't want to cause too much tension amongst people. I think being discreet is our best option at the moment." He looked around at the assembled captains. "Let's move."

Belhadron turned away and began to thread his way through the elves and men around them, back towards Thranduil's tent. Gandalf followed. "Is he unharmed?" he asked.

Belhadron frowned. "Of course he is," he replied. "Whatever you may think of us in this situation, Mithrandir, we are not going to hurt him just because he is a companion of the Dwarves. You do realise that most of us do not want a war?"

Mithrandir raised one eyebrow. "An entire history argues against that," he said. "You are all biased against them, so blind to anything but their faults that you cannot see straight in this situation."

Belhadron huffed an irritated sigh. "I'm not going to try and argue," he said. "I have more important things to do." He suddenly paused, and then darted sideways to one of the scouts who was passing by, distinguishable by their mottled grey cloak. Gandalf frowned in bemusement as Belhadron relayed a seemingly harmless message to the scout. They nodded, and moved swiftly off.

Belhadron caught Gandalf's frown. "I forget that you do not actually spend much time in our realm," he said. "We have codes for situations such as these, when we cannot speak plainly in front of people. What I told the scout to relay to Rhavaniel, she will know to mean something has slipped through the perimeter."

"Someone," corrected Gandalf. When Belhadron looked confused at him, he shook his head. Someone has slipped through the perimeter. That 'creature', as you called him, has a name. He's called Bilbo." Belhadron merely shrugged, and Gandalf held back an irritated sigh.

"So I do not know his name," said Belhadron. "Why does it matter?"

Gandalf raised one eyebrow. "It matters because Bilbo is just as much a person as you are. So are all thirteen of the Dwarves, and all of the men you are helping to train to fight. There are more people back on the shores of the Long Lake."

"Didn't I just say that I, as much as anyone else, don't want it to come to war?" asked Belhadron with a bitter laugh. "I'm aware that if it does, quite a few people are going to die. A lot of the men, possibly, because they don't really know how to fight and you know it. Will it help if I know their names?" He shook his head. "Do not lecture me on war, Mithrandir, not when you know nothing of what we face every day. You don't have the right."

Gandalf shook his head wearily. "I know far more than you may think, but that is not the point," he replied.

Belhadron merely looked bemused. "Then what is?" he asked. "Truthfully, Mithrandir, I'm not following you."

"When was the last time you went outside your realm?" asked Gandalf instead of answering. "When was the last time you really did anything apart from your job?"

Belhadron actually had to think about it for a moment. "I went with Legolas to Imladris about forty years ago for the spring and summer, I think. But since then, we've been busy."

Gandalf shook his head as they reached Thranduil's tent. "And there lies the problem."

He ducked inside the tent. Belhadron, with a roll of his eyes, followed.

Thranduil and Bard were both inside, talking quietly. Belhadron bowed to his King. "We have a situation," he said. To one side, Gandalf started translating softly to Bard.

"The companion of the Dwarves was found five furlongs inside our perimeter," said Belhadron succinctly. "A regular patrol is bringing him in now."

Bard looked shocked. "How did he make it past your sentinels?" he asked.

"I would like to know the same," said Thranduil, his voice smooth. "Captain?"

Belhadron bowed his head. "I've sent one of her scouts to find Captain Rhavaniel, and the sentinels are being changed over. The ones out there now are being brought in for you to speak with. But beyond that, we don't know how he got past us."

"I would not worry over it, Thranduil," said Gandalf, his voice gruff. "Bilbo Baggins will surprise you in more ways than merely this, I believe, before it is all over. I suspect that your people could not have seen him even if they had known he was there."

Thranduil raised one eyebrow. "You are going to explain your burglar soon enough, Mithrandir," he said. "But for now, that will have to suffice." He turned away, gathering up a few of the pieces of parchment that had ended up scattered across the tent. "Do what you wish, Mithrandir. It's all the same to me."

Mithrandir scoffed. "I highly doubt it is, but I'll take your thinly veiled dismissal and leave." He huffed a laugh at Thranduil's wry smile, and then ducked back out of the tent.

"Shall we meet him outside?" asked Bard, reaching for his coat and pulling it on. "It might make him more amiable to us, though hopefully he remembers me well enough."

Thranduil nodded, and turned to Belhadron still standing to one side. "Set up a small perimeter around the clearing outside," he said. "Enough so that any conversation will not be heard. You know what to do."

Belhadron nodded. "Of course," he said. "Legolas has gone out to meet the patrol. He'll be bringing him in. Do you still want to speak with Rhavaniel afterwards?"

Thranduil shook his head. "Let her deal with her scouts as she sees fit, but tell her of what Mithrandir said. I want both you and Legolas visible nearby, if not too close. Use your own discretion, Belhadron. It's always served us well."

Belhadron nodded. "It will be done," he said. With a short bow he turned and left the tent. Thranduil held back a sigh, and looked over at Bard.

"You know this hobbit?" he asked. Bard nodded. "What do you think he wants?"

Bard shook his head. "I have no idea."

0-o-0-o-0

Though it was only a short walk from where the elves had found him to the edge of their camp, Bilbo was already shivering by the time they reached the first of the tents. He had his arms wrapped around himself but it didn't help much, seeing as his coat was soaked through.

They stopped a little way off from the actual camp, and the elves seemed content to wait for the time being. Bilbo felt that they didn't quite know what to make of him, this small shivering person who had nevertheless made it past their own sentinels, and had never been seen in their halls. They were not unkind, but Bilbo felt very much like a small fish surrounded by ancients. He was fairly sure they would count all the years of his life as just a blink of time, whether he actually survived this journey or not.

"Wait here," said one of the elves, and he nodded at the others before he moved forwards into the camp. The others exchanged uneasy glances, and Bilbo got the sense that they were not very high up at all in the chain of command, and had just stumbled across him by accident. As such, he rather felt that they didn't really know what to do.

"Look," he said, quelling his chattering teeth as best as he could. "I just want to speak to Bard and your King, so if you could take me to them, then I would much appreciate it and you could go back to where you are actually needed much quicker, rather than staying around to watch the likes of me."

One of the elves looked down at him. "We're waiting for orders," he said, his accent heavy. "Forgive us for any…" He trailed off, trying to find the word.

"Inconvenience?" asked Bilbo, hiding another shiver. "Not at all, my good elf. I just do not have much time for standing around, and am rather cold."

The elf nodded, but didn't say anything else. Bilbo wondered if they didn't feel cold like he could, because they seemed very unsympathetic to it, or didn't even notice he was cold at all.

There was a flurry of movement from the camp, and then one of the original elves appeared, with someone else at his side. The other elf paused briefly, then darted to one side and grabbed something. He jogged forwards, the other following him.

Bilbo thought that if the elves that had found him had been dangerous enough, with their sharp eyes and sharper steel, then this new elf was deadly. He had what looked like the tip of a bow poking over one shoulder, and two long knives at his belt. Bilbo recognised, after spending so long with Thorin and Fili and Kili and all of the Dwarves who had been fighting for all their lives, the stance of a warrior, and a very good one at that.

The elf, his blond hair swinging around his shoulders, reached them and Bilbo saw that the thing in his hands was, in fact, a blanket. The elf handed it to Bilbo with a smile, the deadly look all but disappearing at the curve of his lips. "To dry off," he said, his voice only with a slight soft accent. "Don't worry about giving it back. Believe me, we have plenty more."

"Hir-nin," said one of the elves abruptly, and the new elf held up one hand. He turned to the others and switched tongues to his own language. From the expression of him and the other elves, Bilbo got the impression they were being told off. Whatever for, he couldn't guess, but the blond elf finished speaking soon enough.

"Master Baggins, I presume?" he asked, and Bilbo nodded. The elf smiled. "My name is Legolas. I am one of the King's captains. If you would come with me, then I will take you to him and to Bard."

Bilbo nodded, and trotted after Legolas as the elf turned and began to lead him through the camp. "Do you need anything, Master Baggins?" he asked. "Food, or drink?"

Bilbo shook his head, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. "A warm fire would not go amiss," he replied. "But I just with to speak with Bard and your King."

"Of course," said Legolas. He walked through the camp, and Bilbo noticed how other elves around them would move out of his way, bowing their heads to him. Legolas either didn't notice, or was so used to it that he didn't respond, and Bilbo began to watch him more carefully.

The camp grew quieter as they drew towards the middle. Bilbo felt a slight unease prickle over him, though he didn't know if he was merely feeling nervous. After all, he had been the one responsible for the Dwarves escaping from the Elvenking's realm.

An elf detached themselves from the shadows of a tent, standing up from where he had been leaning against a post. "Legolas," he said softly, tucking a loose strand of dark hair back behind one pointed ear. Bilbo watched as the two of them exchanged a few soft words in their own tongue, the rich language so different to anything he had heard before. He watched the other elf, who looked just as deadly as Legolas had at the beginning, if not more so. His dark eyes alighted on Bilbo for a moment, and Bilbo tried not to look away before Legolas said something and the elf's gaze turned back to him.

After a few moments Legolas turned back to Bilbo. "Apologies, Master Baggins," he said. "This is my second in command, Belhadron." The elf in question bowed his head to Bilbo.

"Well met, Master Baggins," he said, his voice heavily accented. "Legolas…"

Legolas nodded. "I know. If you would come with me once more, Master Baggins, Bard and our King are nearby." He turned away, the other elf- Belhadron- coming to walk at one of his shoulders. Something clicked in Bilbo's mind.

He had watched Fili and Kili, or Balin or Dwalin, walk at Thorin's shoulders for quite a while now. Bilbo could now recognise, along with the stance and movement of a warrior, someone who would be willing to jump in front of just about anything for the person they were walking besides. He doubted that this Belhadron was related to Legolas, because they looked far too different, but friendship was just as strong, if not more so, than family.

They stepped through into a clearing, and Bilbo inwardly rejoiced to see a large fire burning brightly in front of him. In the next moment, a tall figure rose from one side of the fire. The orange light glinted off the gold hair around his shoulders, and for a second Bilbo rather fancifully imagined the flames dancing around the figure himself, instead of around the charred wood.

Bilbo gulped, and then the figure stepped around the fire and the haze cleared to show the Elvenking. Bilbo bowed. "My Lord," he said, hoping that he didn't squeak as he spoke. "You may not know my face, but Bard is much more familiar with me. I was hoping to speak with both of you, so that you may hear my tale."

The Elvenking inclined his head, and Bilbo wasn't sure if he had imagined the faint smile that had flickered across his face. A second shape stepped out from the other side of the fire, and Bilbo huffed a sigh as Bard came up to stand behind the Elvenking.

"You have us both here," said Bard, with a hint of a wry smile. He gestured for Bilbo to take a seat in front of the fire, his back to a large tent. Behind him, Legolas' gaze was on his King as Thranduil murmured some soft instructions in their own tongue, but he briefly nodded reassuringly at Bilbo.

Bilbo stepped forwards and then sat down on the offered log, pulling his blanket more securely around his shoulders. It wasn't particularly fine, but it was thick and soft and warm, and it served its purpose well. Bilbo tugged slightly at it, pulling the trailing ends away from the edges of the fire.

Bard sat down opposite him, and after a few moments the Elvenking nodded to Legolas and Belhadron, and joined them. Bilbo glanced up to see Legolas and his second move back away from the fire, Belhadron leaning over to murmur something to him. They disappeared out of Bilbo's view, but he was sure that they hadn't gone very far at all.

"So, Master Baggins," said Bard, leaning forwards. "Why have you risked so much to come out here to us?"

Bilbo tugged the blanket around him once again and sat up straighter. "Let me tell you my version of all these events first," he said. "And then you can decide whether you are actually going to trust me or not. I don't have much time to do much persuading." He could see the suspicion in Bard, the wariness, though the Elvenking was far harder to read.

Thranduil smiled slightly. "Then begin, Master Baggins," he said. And so Bilbo did, sitting in front of a fire with a thick blanket around his shoulders, surrounded by elves and the cold of a winter night.


	12. Blind Loyalty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm away this weekend, so this chapter is a day early. The one after this will still be put up on Wednesday.

Thranduil sat back from the fire, watching as Bard slipped the Arkenstone, still wrapped in a dirty cloth, into a pocket inside his coat. His fingers itched briefly to take it, to marvel at its beauty, but he quickly stilled his hands. His gaze flickered over to Bilbo, and he wondered at the small perian sitting across from him, the surprise he could not have seen coming.

"If everything is settled then," said Bilbo, getting to his feet. "I should really be going. I have to get back in time for my watch to end."

"You could stay here," Bard said. "Once we come to them tomorrow Thorin may easily work out that you gave us the Arkenstone. You'll be in danger then."

Bilbo shook his head. "Thorin won't hurt me," he said. "I'm not afraid of him, my dear Bard."

"You should be," said Thranduil softly. He looked up from where he was still sitting. "Thorin Oakenshield may not be in his right mind, and he may not fully realise what he is doing. Gold, especially that which has sat under a dragon's belly for so long, can have that effect."

"I know," said Bilbo. "But all the same, I don't think he will hurt me. If he does, well…"He shook his head. "I'm willing to take that risk." He pulled the blanket off of his shoulders, and held it out to Thranduil. "Here," he said. "I believe this belongs to your people."

Thranduil took it with a nod of thanks. "We will provide an escort for you to return to the mountain," he said. "A small one to avoid any notice, of course, but they will be there throughout the night in case they are needed. They'll meet you at the edge of the camp."

Bilbo nodded, slightly uneasy at the thought that the elves could easily get into Erebor, if they so needed to, under the cover of night. Thranduil saw the unease, though he did not perhaps interpret it correctly. "They won't be noticed by anyone, including you, Master Baggins," said Thranduil. "And they'll be gone before dawn. It is merely a precaution."

Bilbo nodded. "That's quite alright," he said. "I should really be going. Thank you for your time."

"Thank you for everything you have told us, Master Baggins," said Thranduil. Bard nodded in agreement. He clearly still had some suspicions about Bilbo's loyalties, but perhaps was more trusting than he had been.

"Good luck, Bilbo," he said quietly. Bilbo nodded, and then turned and walked away from the fire. Thranduil and Bard watched him go.

"Will Thorin really not hurt him?" asked Bard, his voice soft. "I find that hard to believe."

Thranduil shook his head slightly. "He trusts Thorin," he replied. "Which is naïve, but there is nothing we can do to change his mind. We will have to hope that Thorin keeps his mind somewhat safe from that gold. I admit, it's not ideal, but it is the best we can do."

Bard nodded. "Your escort?" he asked. "Will they be able to do something if he comes into danger?"

"Realistically?" asked Thranduil. "Probably not. If given enough time they could scale the walls and get inside, but I will not have them go too close, in case they are spotted. It is of course unlikely, but I will not take undue risks with them. They will have a better chance if Bilbo decides to flee and gets out of the mountain."

"He seems to have quite a sense of personal preservation," Bard said. "Perhaps it might come to that."

Thranduil nodded. "I will send the escort now," he said. "No doubt Mithrandir has delayed Master Baggins." He held up one hand, a signal to those Bard couldn't see, and Legolas stepped into the circle of light. Behind him stood two other figures, and Thranduil raised one eyebrow slightly at seeing the third.

"How much did you hear?" he asked, seemingly speaking to all three of them at once. Legolas glanced to his left, at the figure Bard was reasonably sure was Belhadron. The dancing shadows from the fire, not to mention his comparatively weak mortal sight, made it a little difficult to tell.

"As much as you would like us to have heard," replied Legolas, a faint amusement in his voice. Thranduil huffed a laugh, a genuine one, and if it weren't for everything that had happened in the past few hours, Bard would have seen that as the most surprising thing this day.

"You heard it all," said Thranduil. He stood up, hair catching in the firelight and glowing gold. "I want the three of you to escort Master Baggins back up to Erebor. You know your orders for the escort, do you not?"

Legolas nodded. "Remain out of sight, but close enough that we can help if needed," he said. "We'll see it done, and return before dawn."

Belhadron, who was indeed on Legolas' left, stepped forwards. "If Master Baggins is…attacked," he said, speaking uneasily in Westron for Bard's sake. "We will engage? Climb walls?"

"Climb the walls," murmured Legolas under his breath, and he momentarily grinned before turning back to Thranduil. "That is a good point, if terrible pronunciation," he said. Behind him, Belhadron rolled his eyes. "Is there a particular way we should proceed if Master Baggins is threatened? Should we engage?"

Thranduil shook his head. "I do not want to see him hurt, or worse dead," he replied. "But your safety is, to me, far more important. If you consider that you are safe enough to help him, then do so, but do not risk yourselves. I don't think Mithrandir would even disagree with me on this." Bard frowned in confusion at that, but let it slide. He had more important things to worry about.

"Hopefully it will not come to that," said the third figure. Rhavaniel stepped forwards as well into the light. "I have new sentinels watching the Dwarves' watch. If someone has seen Master Baggins has gone, then my people will have seen it, and we can prevent Bilbo from returning if we need to."

Thranduil nodded. "Be discreet," he said to the three of them. "Do not get noticed or hurt." The last comment in particular was directed at Legolas, who nodded with a small smile. "Go and meet with Master Baggins. I'm sure Mithrandir will have delayed him."

Legolas nodded and then turned and left. Belhadron and Rhavaniel followed, both of them bowing their heads to their King in a way that Legolas had not. Thranduil did not even seem to notice it.

"Their safety?" asked Bard, once the three elves had moved away out of sight. Thranduil inclined his head, pausing for a moment.

"The three of them have been my captains for centuries now," he said. "I will not lose any of them over a stray arrow fired in anger. Their safety, and thus the safety of my realm, comes far before the life of a Halfling."

Bard frowned, and Thranduil smiled bitterly. "It may seem cruel," he said. "It probably is. But you'll learn soon enough, Bard, that sometimes you will be presented with two bad options. You'll reach a point when there is nothing you can do to win. And at that point, you have to pick the option that is going to let you sleep better at night."

"If Bilbo dies because of my orders then of course that will be partly my fault," Thranduil continued. "But I would regret it far more if, in trying to rescue Bilbo, one of my captains was hurt or killed. It sounds cold, but my captains are far more important than one Halfling."

Bard nodded. "I understand," he said. "And I imagine that far harder choices are going to be ahead of us." Bilbo's news of Dain's Dwarven army had left them wary, and Bard knew that a battle really was just around the corner. He imagined that word would spread soon enough.

Thranduil stood. "I must see to the rest of my captains," he said. "You might want to get the news of Dain's army to your captains as soon as you can. The quicker we get on top of any rumours, the better." He nodded to Bard, and then disappeared into the shadows around them without saying anything else. Bard sighed, and then pulled his coat around him as he went off the other way.

0-o-0-o-0

"You are my escort?" Bilbo looked up at Legolas, who was leaning against a tent post seemingly waiting for something. Legolas nodded with a slight smile, eyes flickering over the camp in search for something Bilbo didn't know.

"Pardon me," he said, and Legolas' sharp gaze snapped back to him. "But don't you have better things to do with your time?"

Legolas laughed. The sound was surprising, after so many days of worry and gloom, and for a second Bilbo reconsidered the offer to stay within the camp.

But no, he had to return. He had to try and save Thorin from himself, if he could. At the end of everything, the Dwarves were his friends and he would stay with them as long as he could.

"We actually don't have much else to do," said Legolas, in answer to Bilbo's question. "Though the news you have brought has set everyone on edge, there is not much more we can do but wait."

Bilbo looked around him, and now that Legolas had mentioned it, the camp did seem quite a bit different than from when he had walked in, though it looked completely the same. There was a tension in the air that had not been there before, and Bilbo saw a few elves beginning to move with a more hurried look. He said so to Legolas, who nodded.

"Rumours will spread fast here," he said. Bilbo looked surprised and Legolas chuckled. "You think that elves do not gossip? When you live for as long as we do, Master Baggins, rumours almost become second nature." He glanced around at a sound that Bilbo couldn't hear, and then smiled slightly. "The others are coming. We can leave soon enough."

Sure enough, Legolas' second came around the corner. Another elf walked with him, and Bilbo was surprised to see that the third elf was female. She looked just as dangerous as the others, with a long knife at her waist and a quiver on her back, but different to Belhadron walking beside her. Bilbo couldn't put his finger on it, but there was something there.

"You remember Belhadron, Master Baggins," said Legolas as the two elves came up to them. "This is Rhavaniel." The elf in question bowed her head to Bilbo, a slight smile on her face.

"Master Baggins," she said in greetings. Bilbo stared for a moment, and then remembering his manners, bowed to her.

"My Lady," he replied. To his surprise, both Belhadron and Legolas laughed. Rhavaniel smiled once more.

"I am no Lady," she said softly. "Just a captain." She turned to the others and pulled two cloaks off her arm, which Bilbo only noticed now. They were strange, in that Bilbo could not quite tell the colour of them. They were grey and green and brown at the same time, the colour changing as Rhavaniel handed them to Legolas and Belhadron. The two swung the cloaks on, and spent a moment pulling their quivers on over the top. Bilbo noticed that all the metal on their buckles, for all three of them, had been blacked out somehow.

"Let's move out," said Legolas as he finished adjusting his quiver, and slotted his bow onto the back. He turned away, gesturing for Bilbo to come up beside him. Belhadron fell into place behind Legolas' left shoulder, and Rhavaniel moved ahead to go in front. They headed off away from the camp, into the valley.

Bilbo saw soon enough the reason for their cloaks. Rhavaniel seemed to be scouting ahead of them, going forwards and then doubling back, and with her cloak she was invisible as soon as she moved a good few yards away from them. Half the time Bilbo didn't even notice she returned until she spoke to Legolas and Belhadron.

They were about halfway up the valley when she showed up once more, and Bilbo couldn't help but jump at the sudden presence to one side. Legolas, to one side of him, chuckled softly. "Do not worry," he said. "She surprises even us, sometimes."

Bilbo watched her as she spoke to Belhadron in low fluid tones. She seemed insubstantial, in the darkness, her edges blurred. It was almost like it was done by magic. He mentioned so, and Legolas shook his head.

"There is no such thing," he said. "Rhavaniel is just very good at her job."

They continued on, and the air around them seemed to grow heavier as they drew closer to the mountain. Bilbo drew his coat more firmly around him, and he noticed how Belhadron's hand was tapping uneasily on the hilt of his sword. Legolas seemed more relaxed, but then Bilbo noticed the slight jump of muscle in his jaw, and the way his hand occasionally clenched. Rhavaniel had disappeared again.

"Is there a war coming?" he asked softly. Belhadron scoffed slightly at the words. Legolas shook his head at the other, before his gaze travelled down to Bilbo.

"War?" said Legolas. He shook his head. "No. But a battle? That's looking quite possible at the moment, with the news you brought us."

Bilbo frowned. "Why?" he asked. "Why must there be a battle?"

"It is very... ah, complicated problem," said Belhadron haltingly. "Better to not ask."

"A very complicated problem," Legolas corrected, almost by habit. "But it is the nature of history that it repeats, almost. There is an animosity between Elves and Dwarves that has existed for a very long time. I'm sure you've noticed." Privately, Bilbo thought he couldn't not have noticed, but that was beside the point.

"If you want an explanation of that," said Legolas. "You will have to see Mithrandir. He will be less biased in the telling. And it all gets very complicated, very quickly. But in the end, it comes down to what orders we are given. If we are told to stand between the mountain and Dain's army, then we will do so. If we do that, then it is very likely there will be blood shed before the end."

"That seems pointless," said Bilbo. "Can't you just stop?"

"If you want stop centuries history, you try," said Belhadron. "It will not finish well."

Legolas shook his head. "Your grammar is terrible," he murmured, before turning back to Bilbo. "He's right, though. We live for a long time, Master Baggins. Change like that is not so easy for us. There were good reasons, initially, for the dislike between our races, and it is not something so easily fixed. There is nothing much we can do."

There was always something to be done, but Bilbo was not going to say so. He knew that there couldn't always be diplomatic options, but it sounded as if Legolas and his people didn't bother looking for them much, assuming that those options weren't there.

In the next moment, Bilbo regretted the thought. The elves had been nothing but decent to him, Legolas especially. They were different to the elves he had met in Rivendell. They seemed more present, staying less in the past and the old tales. And even if most of them did not pay much attention to someone as small as him, they seemed decent, and kind.

A wind swept across the valley, briefly, and Bilbo shivered, tucking his arms around him. His hand briefly rested on his pocket and he fingered the ring briefly, before tucking his hand under his arm. Legolas glanced down.

"We're nearly there," he said. "The three of us will stay in the area for the rest of the night, as you've been told. If you need help, signal us in any way that you can. We will be watching."

Bilbo nodded uneasily. Legolas' gaze softened slightly. "You do not have to go back," he said. "You will be safer in our camp."

"No, I'll return," Bilbo replied. "The offer is much appreciated, but Thorin and the Dwarves are my friends. As I said to your King, I will stay with them for as long as I am able."

"And you give stone to us," said Belhadron questioningly.

"They're my friends," Bilbo said again. "And I will save Thorin, if I can. Even if it means giving the Arkenstone to your King. If what I can do will keep a battle from happening, then I will do it. It's really just as simple as that."

Legolas inclined his head. "Maybe so, Master Baggins," he said. "Maybe so."

"He sounds like Mithrandir," murmured Belhadron in their own tongue. "It's a little scary."

Legolas held back a chuckle, but Belhadron saw it nonetheless. A grin briefly flared before it was swallowed by the darkness. The weight felt oppressive, this close to Erebor, and once again Legolas found his thoughts straying to what could be coming. For some reason, the shadows around them seemed tantalisingly easy to reach.

Belhadron gently nudged him with his shoulder, catching the silence to be something else. Legolas nodded, but his hand still itched to find one of his knives, have the familiar weight in his hand.

"Do you know what is going to happen now?" asked Bilbo as he scrambled up over a boulder that had suddenly appeared in their way. The elves merely jumped up, landing gracefully.

Legolas shook his head. "We have a good idea, but we do not know. Regardless, it is not all that good to dwell on it, Master Baggins. It will change very little."

"But there will be a battle," said Bilbo. "You're sure of that."

"We're not," said Rhavaniel, making Bilbo jump. "After so long doing what we do, we've learnt to look at the bad options well before anything else, so we can be ready. But we do not know for sure. We will have to wait and see."

They fell into silence, and continued to walk up to the head of the valley, the mountain waiting for them. At one point Rhavaniel came back from up ahead, and confirmed that there had been no movement up on Erebor. Bilbo had not been found missing.

Bilbo let out a breath that he tried, at least, to keep steady. "I can go from here," he said.

Legolas shook his head. "We'll get you as close as we are able," he said. "If you are spotted coming in, then we might need to be there." He motioned for Bilbo to continue on, which he did. Legolas fell into step behind him, the two other elves flanking him almost instinctively, and Bilbo tried to shrug the feeling that they were watching him as he clambered up to the mountain.

Finally they were close enough, and Legolas paused. Belhadron and Rhavaniel came to a stop beside him. "I think this is where we part ways, Master Baggins," Legolas said, his voice low. "If you need us-"

"I know, you'll be here," replied Bilbo. "But if I get into trouble inside, exactly how much are you going to be able to do to help?"

Legolas pause, and behind him Belhadron's frown, answered his question for him. Bilbo nodded decisively, squaring his shoulders. "Right," he said. "I'll get going then. Thank you for everything."

"Stay safe, Master Baggins," said Rhavaniel unexpectedly, and both Legolas and Belhadron nodded. Bilbo tried something like a smile, but it probably came out more as a grimace. Wrapping his coat tighter around him, he turned and began to walk towards the mountain. It was the first time he had seen it from this point of view, and he had to admit, Erebor was rather intimidating.

Upon reaching the base, before he began to climb back up to where he had been standing only a few hours previously, he turned and looked back. Already he could only see the indistinct outlines of the three elves. One raised a pale hand in farewell, and then they faded into shadows and darkness as Bilbo watched.

0-o-0-o-0

Bard remembered once, when he was about thirteen years old, he and his friends had found a wasps' nest in the rafters of one of the old barns they kept on land for the livestock. It had looked so strange, hanging from the beam, and they had dared each other to get close. Bard, of course, had warned against it, but hadn't wanted to back down from a dare either. In the end, they had all climbed up onto the beams and gotten closer together.

As they had gotten closer and closer, Bard had noticed the sound, below the heavy breaths of the boys. There had been a buzzing just beyond the edge of his hearing, a low murmur of the wasps inside. What had made it worse, though, was that they couldn't see a single wasp. They knew where they were, of course, but the murmur of sound had been all around them, within the very air itself.

The camp now sounded just like that wasps' nest. Bilbo's news seemed to have spread throughout, and Bard was amused to see that elves gossiped as much, if not far more, than his own men. Though Bard could not catch anyone openly talking about it, he could sense the murmurs sneaking through the air behind his back.

He found Thranduil standing in front of the fire, a glass of wine in his hands. The King looked up as Bard approached. "So you can hear it too," he said.

"Hear what?" asked Bard gruffly, coming to stand beside Thranduil. The elf smirked slightly.

"The murmurs," he said. "You've got that annoyed look, like you can just hear the whispers, but not what they are saying, and every time you turn around-"

"Nobody is talking," finished Bard. "I know. It's infuriating." He sighed. "What is to come? Do you know?"

"That rather depends on you," answered Thranduil. "What have your men said?"

"They want to hold out," replied Bard. "If Dain and his army get into Erebor then there's a good chance we could leave with nothing. That can't happen. We need repayment, we need something, or the people on the shore of the lake behind us will wither away and become nothing. No offence, my Lord, but we cannot rely on your kindness."

Thranduil huffed a laugh. "I would not expect you to," he said. "And in regards to my own realm, I am glad you will not. We will stand beside you, Bard, whatever you choose to do." He tilted his head with a smile. "Well, almost. There are some limitations to that."

"I would expect so," muttered Bard. Thranduil would have no worries, though. He hardly thought he could do something without the support of the Elvenking, and they were allied on pretty much everything relevant that had come up so far.

He only stayed for a few minutes before moving off once more. Thranduil watched him leave. Bard was becoming good at hiding his thoughts, but Thranduil was pretty sure he was feeling out of his depth. He had no doubt that he would, if their positions were reversed. One of the problems with mortality, he thought. Bard just didn't have much time to learn everything he needed to.

"You're frowning again."

Thranduil tipped his head back with a quiet groan. "Mithrandir," he said in greetings. "I'm not giving you any wine. You've drunken enough of my store already."

"I've not had nearly as much as your own captains," Gandalf remarked. "And you're still frowning."

"I'd noticed," muttered Thranduil dryly. "We're in a bit of a situation here, in case you aren't aware. I've got a lot on my mind." As if on cue, Gandalf watched as his gaze strayed towards the dark bulk of the mountain.

"He knows what he's doing," Gandalf said softly. "He'll be safe."

Thranduil shook his head. "One wrong movement," he said softly. "One wrong Dwarf in the wrong place. One stray arrow, and this entire thing comes tumbling down."

"Everything?" asked Gandalf. Thranduil raised one eyebrow as he looked over at him.

"You know me, Mithrandir," he said. "Do you think that I would do anything less if they killed my son? It would be everything, and I would not regret it." His gaze fell back to the mountain, and Gandalf was reminded that the elf beside him was possibly even more dangerous than himself, at the thought of his wrath if the worst happened.

It was easy to look over it, but Thranduil was the greatest King of the Silvan elves for a good reason. He had survived the Last Alliance and three thousand years of a steadily growing darkness, not to mention whatever horrors might lie in the First Age. He was skilled, and smart enough, to be a serious threat to anything that stood in his way. But for now, Gandalf pushed those thoughts away until he could merely see the weary, burdened King, and the worried father.

"You know as well as I do that he will be fine," said Gandalf. "And he will come back before dawn, and you will cease looking so worried. He's with Rhavaniel. She will keep him hidden. And he is with Belhadron. He will give his life for Legolas, in the very unlikely event that he has to. You know that. That's why he's there."

Thranduil inclined his head. "I know," he said. "And I have been in this situation many times before. But this is different. This isn't a skirmish under the boughs of our trees. This could devolve into war, if we are that unlucky. And I do not want to risk my son's life in this, not if I can help it."

"I already know that," said Gandalf. "But still, I am glad to hear it. I would rather this ended with no bloodshed, if possible."

"You have repeated that how many times, Mithrandir?" asked Thranduil. "I know. The Dwarves are your friends. I am your friend. You don't want any of us dead. I get that. But you understand that I have to support Bard and my own agenda? I cannot bend to your changing intentions every time, and you know that."

Gandalf raised one eyebrow. "It would make my life a lot easier if you did," he said. He glared at Thranduil for a moment, and then both of them laughed. Thranduil took a sip of his wine.

"Ai, Mithrandir," he said. "You are not in my realm often enough."

"You are not out of your realm often enough," countered Gandalf with a smile. Thranduil frowned.

"I am a King," he said. "I can hardly wander away like you so easily do."

"It would do you good," said Gandalf in a low voice, but Thranduil held up one hand swiftly.

"We are not getting into that argument again," he said. "It's enough that you have been needling Belhadron about it, you do not need to start with me as well." Gandalf raised one eyebrow, and Thranduil smiled wryly. "Secrets and rumours," he said. "I have someone who trades in them. I know far more than you sometimes think, Mithrandir."

"I cannot leave, and you know that," Thranduil said. "All I can do is send Legolas to Imladris when I can, and even that is pushing it at times. We're stretched thin, Mithrandir, which you would know if you actually stayed around more often."

"Then why are you here?" asked Gandalf. "I know you originally marched for the hoard in Erebor, mostly, but that is nowhere near your mind at the moment, I think." He took Thranduil's wine glass out of his hand and took a sip for himself. Thranduil scoffed.

"If I think about it too much, I wouldn't be able to give you an answer," he replied with a shake of his head. Gandalf sighed.

"Fair enough. I should go and check on other things," he said. "Bard has the Arkenstone?"

Thranduil nodded. "Of course. I'm not going to keep it," he said. "I really don't think Thorin Oakenshield would like me handling it. Besides," he added with a rueful smile and a distant gaze, "I have seen what people will do for jewels. I watched it all a long time ago."


	13. Waiting on the Game

They returned to the camp as the first fingers of the Sun began to tentatively reach for the bare rocks below. Rhavaniel melted fairly quickly into the still grey light, needing to check on the whispers her people would have picked up during the night. All three of them could feel the change, the sharpness to the air. They were somewhat familiar with the sensation, having been in many situations where they were forced to wait for a battle that they knew was coming, but here it was different. Whether it was because of the Dwarves or the lack of boughs over their heads and the unfamiliarity of the stones beneath their feet, Legolas couldn't tell, but the air felt distinctively different to any other time.

Belhadron glanced up at the grey clouds gathering overhead. "I wish the weather would make up its mind," he muttered. "It's getting irritating."

"Everything is getting irritating to you," replied Legolas with a low laugh. He clasped Belhadron's shoulder. "Go and see the other captains. I'll speak to my father."

"That's hardly a fair trade," protested Belhadron, but he did so with a grin and slipped away soon enough, whistling for Umor who came running from the fire where he had been sleeping. Legolas tracked their movements for a few seconds, before making his way to Thranduil's tent.

They only had a few hours of rest before the camp was busy, and they were needed again. There seemed to be more people in it now, though nobody had arrived. Everyone was moving somewhere, with something to do, and Legolas almost missed the restless boredom that had now disappeared.

Rhavaniel appeared and disappeared as the morning wore on, few words about where she had been or where she was going. Though the captains could most likely know what she was doing, it was old habit that she didn't speak much of her work. A single messenger was sent up to the mountain just after dawn to declare their demands to Thorin and his party, and Belhadron once again tried to wear a track in the perimeter with his pacing.

An hour or so before midday Thranduil called the captains together. Bard was already in there, talking quietly with a few of his own men whom he had made his captains. Thranduil looked around at all of them, before nodding at Bard.

"This is what Bilbo Baggins gave us last night," Bard said, drawing forth a cloth wrapped package. "And this is what we are bargaining with." He set the package on the table, and then pulled off the cloth.

There was a collective sharp intake of breath from the elves and men around the table as the Arkenstone was revealed, and one or two of the elves made aborted movements to stand upon seeing the jewel. Thranduil raised one hand, and they quickly sat down once more.

"I wanted you to know what it is we have," Thranduil said. "What it is that Thorin Oakenshield desires above nearly all else. We shall have to see if it is enough."

Bard spoke up, leaning forwards in his chair. "We issued our demands once more to Thorin Oakenshield early this morning, as you all know. Twenty men and elves, both of us included, will now go to the mountain to negotiate with Oakenshield."

"A few of you, of course, will be accompanying us," said Thranduil. He nodded to Bard, who spoke first, detailing the eight men that he would be bringing with him. His own men nodded, already used to deferring to his command, and Thranduil heard how Bard's voice had strengthened and developed that certainty that had previously been lacking.

He was not practised, not by a long way, but it was there. He was glad. It looked more and more like Bard was going to have to command his men in a battle, and he would need the strength Thranduil was beginning to see.

Bard finished and nodded at his men. "With me gone, you are in charge of our people," he said to one of his men at the table. He smiled wryly. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do." The man ducked his head and nodded.

Thranduil turned to his own captains. "Rhavaniel, you will go ahead of us unseen and take up position as close as you can, in case things take a turn for the worse. You know what to do."

Rhavaniel nodded. "Of course," she said. "In what situation do you want me to act?"

"Any open hostility from the Dwarves that is intended to harm any of us," replied Thranduil smoothly. "Do what you always do, Rhavaniel." She inclined her head, and at a nod from him stood up and left.

"As for who is accompanying Bard and I to Erebor," continued Thranduil. "Legolas, you will lead the eight elves that we are taking. You are a familiar, and perhaps less intimidating, face to Master Baggins." Legolas nodded.

"Belhadron, given that Legolas will be accompanying us, you will be in charge whilst we are gone." Belhadron looked momentarily a little surprised, but nodded quickly at his King. Legolas held back a laugh.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," he said with a smile. "And even then, think about it first."

There were murmured laughs around the table from the elves, and a few of the men grinned. But soon they parted ways after final instructions, most of the captains going back to their duties. Legolas headed back to their tent to fetch his armour, and as usual, Belhadron was at his shoulder.

Bard turned to Thranduil. "I thought Belhadron was only Legolas' second in command," he said. "Doesn't he rank below the other captains?"

"In name, and not much else," replied Thranduil with a slight smile. "He's been Legolas' second for centuries now, and could have taken up his own command a long time ago. It's his loyalty to Legolas that has kept him from asking for anything more. I'm sure you've noticed it."

Bard nodded. "Of course." He would have had to be blind to not notice the unwavering loyalty Belhadron seemed to possess when it came to Legolas. If they weren't obviously not related, then Bard could have easily have mistaken them for brothers. But then family never did end with blood, he supposed.

Thranduil inclined his head, interrupting Bard's thoughts. "He's actually more experienced than any of the other captains, apart from Legolas and perhaps Rhavaniel," he said. "Legolas would normally have command in this situation if I were to leave. As he is also leaving, the command falls to Belhadron this time. But the captains work together on equal footing most of the time, anyway."

Bard nodded. "These things can get complicated," he remarked, and Thranduil laughed.

"That is perhaps quite an understatement." He shook his head slightly. "You will quickly become used to it, I think."

"I know," murmured Bard, and he wasn't sure if he should be worried when he did not feel so much apprehension upon thinking about it, about everything that was going to happen after.

0-o-0-o-0

From her place higher up on one of the slopes, Rhavaniel could see everything unfolding beneath her. By the time the party of twenty men and elves, and two dogs and a wizard reached the gates of Erebor, she had been in position for little over half an hour.

They had laid their weapons aside before approaching, seemingly a sign of good faith, and it made Rhavaniel uneasy, though she was sure at least some of the elves had knives hidden on them. One of them was one of her own, who would definitely have at least two knives somewhere and maybe one of those folding crossbows, but she still reached for an arrow and set it loosely to her bow, just in case.

She could easily pick out the faces in the party. Thranduil and Bard were leading the way, with Gandalf, cloaked, behind them. She saw Legolas within the party as well, though not too close to Thranduil. They didn't know how perceptive Thorin was, or how much he knew, but she thought it fairly wise to not make it obvious to the Dwarf that Thranduil's son was also amongst the party.

The Dwarves came to the ramparts, high above the valley floor, and Rhavaniel settled in to see what would happen.

She saw the reaction from Thorin when Bard first revealed the Arkenstone. Even from where she was the rage was palpable. Rhavaniel's hands steadily pulled back the string of her bow, readying. If a Dwarf went to shoot at the party, she would be able to get a shot off first. If there was more than one shot from the Dwarves, then she had a few tricks she could employ.

She'd done it to Legolas once, when they had been caught in a bad skirmish. She had been up out of sight, methodically picking off the orcs, when two of them had raised their crossbows to shoot at Legolas at the same time, and he was too busy to see. She couldn't have brought both of them down in time, so she did something else. She shot Legolas instead.

It had only been a fairly minor wound to his leg, but it was enough to make him stumble and fall. Both of the crossbow bolts had flown over his head. It had been a risk, but in the end had saved his life. Her aim was, of course, good enough to do the same here, though she wasn't sure what Bard would think if she shot him.

In the next few minutes, a lot happened. Rhavaniel watched as Thorin raged at seeing the Arkenstone in Bard's hands, at seeing Thranduil beside him. She watched, arrow steady, as he grabbed Bilbo, and though Rhavaniel was too far away to hear him, she could tell he had worked it out.

The next moment, Thorin picked Bilbo up, and she rose up slightly, crouching amongst the rocks. The point of her arrow hovered in the air as Thorin, to her surprise, nearly threw Bilbo out over the side of the mountain. There was a second where she thought that he would let go, dangling Bilbo out over the stone edge, and she couldn't quite place the sudden feeling in her chest, a mixture of worry and regret that was odd and unfamiliar.

The possible tragedy was averted when below, Gandalf revealed himself. Rhavaniel sighed softly in relief as Thorin pulled Bilbo back, and then when the Halfling climbed down from the rampart to the valley floor. As soon as he was away from the wall Legolas gestured, and a grey shape shot from the company towards Bilbo. Rhavaniel recognised Umor, who was nearly as big as the Halfling as he escorted him back towards the men and elves.

Gandalf looked relieved. She could see it even from where she was, far away from all of them. Rhavaniel supposed that he had come to care deeply for the Halfling, as Gandalf could sometimes do. Time would tell if that would be a mistake. Mortals were fragile, after all.

A few final words were exchanged between Thorin and Bard, and then the company turned to go back into camp. Legolas fell into step on the other side of Gandalf, Bilbo between them. Umor trotted at his side, and to Rhavaniel it looked like the presence of the dog was reassuring, Bilbo reaching out tentatively to ruffle his fur.

Her gaze snapped back to the Dwarves. If any of them were to try something, it would be now. But Thorin Oakenshield merely watched the company depart with what looked like a combination of anger, frustration and perhaps a little regret colouring his face. Some of the other Dwarves had already turned away, back to the expanse of halls that were far too big for the thirteen of them.

Eventually even Thorin turned away, and Rhavaniel caught the anger settling deep within him as he did so. She knew he would not bargain now, not if Dain's army was a day away. It would come to a battle, if not war.

She shook her head. If it came to a battle then it would come to a battle, and this time there was little she could do. She didn't think any of them really wanted to fight. Oh, there were always those who developed a little more of a hatred for Dwarves, those who angered quickly and were slow to relinquish their views, but the most of them did not want another battle if it was not necessary. In her long life, she had already seen plenty of elven blood spilt. She didn't particularly want to see more, but it was not up to her.

The board had been set long ago. The pieces were already moving. All they were waiting for were the players to decide upon their final moves.

The Valar help them all when they did.

0-o-0-o-0

Bilbo put his hand out, and the dog beside him sniffed him before nudging his head underneath his hand with a sigh. For some reason it made Bilbo feel better, as only an animal can sometimes do. His hand found its way to the dog's shoulder and he briefly clenched the fur at the dog's scruff. The dog whined slightly, but didn't make to move away.

A large hand fell on his shoulder, and Bilbo looked up to see Gandalf. "Did I do the right thing?" he asked, looking worried.

Gandalf sighed. "It is a hard thing to tell," he said. "But yes, I think you did the right thing."

"What is done is done," said Legolas, who was walking on the other side of the dog. At his voice, the dog looked up with his ears pricked. He wagged his tail and Legolas smiled, briefly ruffling his ears. The elf looked back to Bilbo. "We knew this was going to be difficult. I'm just glad it ended without any bloodshed, theirs or ours."

"But you put your weapons aside," Bilbo said, confused. "I saw you put them down before approaching."

Legolas laughed softly. "We put aside the weapons we were openly carrying," he said. "I'm wagering that all of the elves, at least, are carrying a hidden knife or two." As if to prove his point he undid one of his vambraces, showing Bilbo the blade sewn into the inside.

Gandalf scoffed. "I would expect that from Belhadron," he said. "And perhaps Rhavaniel-" Legolas raised one eyebrow, and Gandalf laughed roughly. "Especially Rhavaniel, then," he corrected. "But I did not think you would have hidden blades on you, Legolas."

Legolas laughed. "They have helped me out a few times," he replied. "It's a nice reassurance to have, just in case." As was Rhavaniel, steady up on the slopes, there in case things turned worse. She could do much more than Legolas with his hidden knives. But knives weren't even the worst thing the elves might have had hidden on them. Legolas was fairly sure that Rhavaniel's person who was with them might even have a folded crossbow hidden somewhere. They were inelegant weapons, and he didn't like them at all, but they could be useful in the right situation.

They returned to the camp, and Bilbo watched uncertainly as the elves and men spread out and moved away, at nods from the Elvenking and Bard. The dark haired elf, his name forgotten, was waiting at the edge of the camp for them, a grin on his face as he saw Legolas. Legolas murmured a few words and then the dog at Bilbo's side bounded forwards for the elf, who crouched down to meet him. Legolas greeted the elf and they walked off together, talking quietly in their own tongue. The dog trotted beside them.

Bilbo spent most of the afternoon wandering through the camp, trying to piece together everything that had happened in the past day or so. He hadn't really looked at the camp the night before, had been too busy with far more important things. Now he wandered through the rows of tents, watching the elves moving quietly around him.

They were a little scary, if he looked too closely. He could see the weapons they bore, the swords and knives, spears and bows, and now he knew about the weapons they may have hidden on them as well, they felt even more dangerous. He passed by them warily.

Some of the men were sparring off to one side, elves moving around them as if they were teaching. Bilbo stopped by to watch. He had nothing else to do.

He stayed and watched them for a little while, but found that soon his thoughts began to stray to actual fights, to the battle everyone believed was ahead, and the sight and sound of sharp steel began to cause a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Gandalf found him once again, not soon after. "Thranduil wanted to speak with you," he said by way of greeting, and Bilbo didn't feel like complaining. He followed Gandalf, as he had done almost all of this time, and was ushered inside.

Thranduil was sitting on the edge of his bed, his armour discarded to one side. "Master Baggins," he said with a slight smile. "How are you?"

Bilbo inclined his head. "Well enough, my Lord," he said. "I suppose that thanks are in order, for allowing me to stay in your camp."

Thranduil looked amused. "As if Mithrandir would let me do anything else," he remarked. "But I would not have turned you away, Master Baggins, even if Mithrandir were not here. What is happening is not your fault." He seemed to understand a little of what Bilbo was thinking, for his smile softened.

"I do not fault your loyalty to the Dwarves," Thranduil said. "I stand by what I told you last night. You are worthy of the armour you wear. Your loyalty is admirable, even more so if you are able to do what is necessary to save them in spite of their blinded views. I would not expect this from some of my own people, let alone a Halfling a very long way from their home."

Bilbo fingered the mithril through his own shirt, and ducked his head. Gandalf's hand fell on Bilbo's shoulder. "What is your point, Thranduil?" he asked. To Bilbo's slight surprise, Thranduil laughed.

"Abrupt as ever, Mithrandir," he said. His gaze turned back to Bilbo. "I wanted to let you know what is probably going to happen," he said, his voice becoming serious. "Dain is arriving tomorrow. I would much appreciate it if you would go with Bard to meet him when they do. My army and Bard's men will stand behind you both, of course, to block off the valley, but the further I am from Dain, the less likely he is to kill someone, I think." There was the ghost of a smile on his face, but it was hidden behind walls and old scars.

Bilbo nodded, and Thranduil continued. "We are not letting Dain enter Erebor," he said. "Once he does then our cause, Bard's cause, will be lost. I promised Bard friendship. I do not break my promises, not often and not without good reasons. So if the Dwarves insist on entering Erebor, then they will have to pass through us."

"A battle," said Bilbo, hoping his voice did not waver as he said it. He didn't know how to fight. He didn't want to fight.

"If it comes to it," replied Thranduil. "Do not mistake me, Master Baggins. I do not want to fight. I do not want to risk my people. The Dwarves, no matter all of our past grievances, are not my enemy, and I do not wish to begin a war for gold. But I will not go back on my word, and Bard and his people need my help." He sighed slightly, leaning forwards and resting his arms on his legs. Somehow, it made him look even more intimidating.

"Are you with us, Master Baggins?" Thranduil asked. "Will you stand with us?"

Bilbo froze. Slowly, he gulped and then nodded. "It seems like I have nowhere else to stand," he replied. There was a moment of silence within the tent, broken only by the sounds of the camp outside, someone setting out orders in their fluid tongue, the bark of a dog somewhere close by.

Thranduil studied Bilbo for a moment, and then leant back, seemingly satisfied with what he had seen. "Good," he said shortly. "Mithrandir-"

Whatever he had been about to say was interrupted by a knock outside the tent. Bilbo jumped, and turned to see Legolas duck his head inside the tent flap. Thranduil looked up, and spoke briefly in his own tongue.

Legolas ducked his head, but it was with a grin and a short laugh. He said something back in the same tongue and then came inside, heading for one of the chests tucked away to one side of the bed. Thranduil smiled, and a short conversation flowed easily between the two of them as Legolas searched through the chest.

In a few moments he had found what he was looking for, and stood back up. Thranduil reached out as he did so and caught Legolas' arm as he turned away. He looked up and asked something, his voice low. To Bilbo, everything about him seemed to change whilst nothing did at the same time. It was as if one of the walls, one of the masks the Elvenking wore, slipped for a few moments, and there was a whole different person waiting underneath. Legolas dipped his head and replied in the same soft voice, his hand briefly grasping Thranduil's arm.

In the next second Bilbo watched as things reversed to normal, only this time he wasn't sure whether it was really normal anymore. There seemed to be quite a few masks that everyone around him wore. Legolas nodded at both him and Gandalf, who for some reason had a grin on his face that he was rather failing to hide.

"My apologies," he said, slipping into Westron. "I won't interrupt again." He ducked back out of the tent. Gandalf's gaze turned back to Thranduil, raising his eyebrows. Thranduil merely smiled softly. Bilbo looked between the two of them, confused.

"Do you have a family, Master Baggins?" Thranduil asked suddenly. Bilbo shook his head.

"I have cousins and aunts and uncles, like everyone," he replied. "But I would hardly be here if I had children or a wife, my Lord."

Thranduil raised one eyebrow. "Something you no doubt take for granted," he murmured. "You do not realise how much you would sacrifice until you have a family, Master Baggins."

"Thranduil," growled Gandalf, and for some reason it sounded as if he was warning the Elvenking. Thranduil looked unfazed.

"Mithrandir," he replied evenly. "Do not worry."

"I always worry," Gandalf replied quickly. "About everything. But you must-" He slipped into Elvish, and Bilbo looked on, confused, as they had a brief discussion in Thranduil's tongue. It sounded as if Gandalf was admonishing the Elvenking for something, and given Thranduil's normal demeanour and the wry smirk that crossed his face now, it all left Bilbo thoroughly confused.

Eventually Gandalf seemed to concede to something Thranduil said, and they fell silent. Thranduil turned to Bilbo. "Apologies for that, Master Baggins," he said, though he didn't sound sorry at all.

Bilbo ducked his head again. "None are needed, my Lord," he replied. A sudden burst of courage came to him unwanted, and he found the words spilling from his tongue before he could restrain them, think them through.

"Do you have a family?"

Thranduil paused. Behind him, Gandalf straightened a little, and his hand fell to Bilbo's shoulder again. Bilbo looked curiously at Thranduil. For a moment, it was not the Elvenking sitting opposite him, but merely another person, wearied by war and the long ages of the world.

"I am a King," was all that he said. He looked as if he might say more, but didn't, in the end.

The masks fell back into place, and he stood. "I have other matters I must attend to," he said. "Master Baggins, my camp and my people are at your disposal, as much as they can be. Mithrandir can get you anything you need, I am sure." He moved past them, pulling his long silver coat from on top of one of the chests as he went.

Bilbo watched him go, wondering about what he had said and what he meant by it. Gandalf huffed, and shook his head in exasperation, before grabbing his staff and getting to his feet.

"We have some time," he said. "Do you want to see how elves fight?"


	14. What People Will Do For Gold

"This," Bilbo said. "This is madness."

Gandalf laughed. "This is how wood elves fight."

Bilbo wasn't sure whether he should be impressed or simply scared. Two elves, ones he didn't recognise, were moving across a bare space of ground. Each of them was carrying a sword, but Bilbo could barely see the blades as they fought.

They would spar for a brief bout and then pause, blades locked together. According to Gandalf, those pauses were when one of them could have inflicted a blow. They were in the midst of such a bout now, the clash of steel making Bilbo's ears ring just a little.

He stayed there with Gandalf, watching the elves practice, for quite a while. There was a deadly grace to which they moved, no step or swing of a blade wasted. Bilbo watched as one elf executed what looked like a vastly complicated move and disarmed their opponent. He wondered how long it took them to learn how to do that. He wondered how long they had all been fighting to be so fast, be so dangerous.

"How long do elves live for?" he asked Gandalf. The wizard shrugged.

"For as long as they can," he replied. "They do not age, they do not grow old or fall ill. They die only from being slain or by their own choice, if they give in to grief. You remember Lord Elrond, of course? He is over two ages old, more than six thousand years. Thranduil is about the same age, if perhaps a few centuries younger."

Bilbo raised his eyebrows. "But Thranduil- the Elvenking- seems so different from Lord Elrond."

"They are very different," remarked Gandalf. "I won't explain all of the ancient differences and politics to you now, because they are very complicated and we do not have the time. But Lord Elrond and King Thranduil are different races of Elves. That's simplifying it, of course. There are large things in their past that has resulted in these differences, not least their realms. The elves in Rivendell are, for the most part, safe. The valley is protected. Thranduil's realm is not."

Bilbo frowned. "Yes it is."

"Well, it is," amended Gandalf with a smile down at the hobbit. "But not in the same way, and only by these warriors here, and the rest back at their realm. The elves in Rivendell live almost in the past, amidst memories of lands long since forgotten by everyone else. The elves here have no such luxury. They must live in the present, or die." He paused suddenly. "That was a lot more morose than I had intended."

"It sounded it," said Bilbo. Gandalf laughed roughly, but the sound petered away and he soon fell to frowning at the elves sparring in front of them. Rhavaniel appeared and disappeared as was her wont, and the big dog that was usually with Belhadron trotted by her side.

Bilbo sighed slightly, watching them, and he found himself fingering the ring in his pocket before he even realised it.

0-o-0-o-0

If the camp had been buzzing yesterday, to Bard it was now close to erupting. Many of the elves were muttering amongst themselves, and Bard caught the name of Thorin more than a few times. It was late afternoon, and he was sat to one side of the area his men and the elves were using to practice. His sword was in his lap and a whetstone in his hand.

Gandalf suddenly appeared beside him, sitting down and lighting a pipe. Bilbo was across the other side of the practice area, seemingly lost in watching the elves spar. Bard did have to admit that it could almost be mistaken for dancing, if dancing involved weapons.

"Are you ready?" asked Gandalf, gaze not wavering from the elves and men in front of them. Bard wondered how his gaze wasn't constantly drawn to the mountain towering over them.

He nodded. "I have to be," he said. "We all have to be." He would not be helpless, he would not stand by or back away. He was out of his depth, but the anger and grief he had been keeping so successfully hidden was slowly chipping away at the barriers now.

Gandalf nodded, and Bard glanced over at him. "Why does this animosity exist between the elves and the dwarves?" he asked. "It is something that I cannot not notice, if you know what I mean, and it seems to have very long roots."

"Elves especially have very long memories," replied Gandalf with a bitter smile. "You have not asked Legolas for an explanation?"

"Of course not," replied Bard. "I have no doubt that his loyalty is first to his King. Whatever I say to him will most likely make it to King Thranduil."

Gandalf chuckled. "Very wise," he said. "Would you like the short or long explanation?"

"The explanation that is going to be most useful to me, if you don't mind," replied Bard.

"How do you know I will tell you the truth?" asked Gandalf.

"I don't," said Bard. "But you are far more likely to be honest than an elf, and I can't exactly ask any Dwarves at the moment. Legolas told me that no matter what, you will always be on the side of the good. I'm just hoping that includes me, at the moment."

Gandalf laughed. "Very well," he said. "And it does include you, by the way. But this animosity began a long time ago, before even I walked on this ground."

"In the First Age, when the might of the elves was absolute and far greater than you see here, there was some friendship between Dwarves and Elves. Not Sindarin elves, Thranduil's race, but the other race, the Noldorin. Their love of working metals and craftsmanship kept them, at the least, cordial."

"The King of the Sindarin elves came into possession, through his daughter, of a jewel called the Silmaril. There were three of them, made by a Noldorin elf called Feanor, and their like will never be seen again in all of the Ages. By the time I will tell you of came to pass, tens thousands of elves had already died because of those jewels."

Bard raised one eyebrow. "I find it hard to believe that," he said. "Didn't an elf make them himself?"

Gandalf sighed slightly. "It would be very hard for you to fully understand in the time we have," he said. "But you have seen, or heard, what the Dwarves in that mountain have done for their gold. Imagine that, but amongst elves, and then against all the forces of evil at the same time. They killed each other over those jewels, which were the greatest works the Elves have ever accomplished." Gandalf shook his head. "Elves are no less susceptible to greed. They have just had history teach them an incredibly harsh lesson."

Bard still looked skeptical. Gandalf shook his head. "Why do you think Thranduil has refused any claim on that treasure?" he asked. "It is partially a tactical move, of course, and to aid you, but he knows better than most what that gold can do to a person. May I continue?"

Bard ducked his head. "By all means," he replied, and Gandalf began to speak once more.

"Thingol came into possession of a Silmaril. He asked the Dwarves to remake a necklace so that it may bear the jewel, as he began to covet it above almost anything else. The Dwarves did so, and as they worked they too began to desire the Silmaril."

"Upon finishing the work, the Dwarves decided that they would take the Silmaril as payment for what they had done. That day, Thingol was in the forge with them, as he often watched them work. They refused, and when Thingol haughtily declared he would pay them nothing, they killed him and ran."

"They were pursued by the elves, but some escaped and returned to their Dwarven kingdoms. The Dwarves returned, and sacked Doriath out of vengeance. Many of both races were killed."

Bard winced, but Gandalf shook his head. "That is not all," he said. "Thingol's son, Dior, rebuilt Doriath, but from then on it was nowhere near the same. The realm used to be one of the safest places out of all the elven realms. Because of Thingol's death, and that Silmaril, the kingdom was sacked for a second time by some of the Noldorin elves. This time, it was razed to the ground."

Bard sucked in a breath, and his mind conjured up images of leaping flames and the screams of children. But what he had seen could not even compare to the tale Gandalf was telling.

"Thranduil was there," he said softly, a statement rather than a question.

"Possibly," replied Gandalf. "I cannot be sure. But if he was not yet born, his father was a Lord in Thingol's court at the time, and he saw everything."

"There is blame on both sides, of course. The Elves have not forgotten what those Dwarves did to their realm. The Dwarves of this Age were not alive to see what they believe are events long faded into memory."

"So they resent the Elves for holding what they perceive as a needless grudge," finished Bard for him. "But most of the elves here, they cannot have seen all of that?"

"None save Thranduil, in this camp," replied Gandalf. "But the history is well known, and their animosity runs deep. Neither side is willing to concede to the other, and that has kept them distant for centuries, if not longer."

Bars chewed on his lip thoughtfully. "So by having the backing of the elves, I merely incite Thorin and any other Dwarf?" he asked.

"Undoubtedly," replied Gandalf. He saw the doubt growing in Bard's eyes at that answer, and quickly spoke again. "But without Thranduil's aid, Thorin would not have taken you seriously. You would have had no strength. You've done the right thing, Bard, as much as there is a right thing to do in such a situation."

Bard laughed bitterly. "Have I?" he asked. "I can't tell anymore." He shook his head. "My thanks, Gandalf, but perhaps knowing the reasons behind it was not such a good idea after all." It was a lot easier to take sides when given reasons, something he didn't think would end well after all this was finished.

Gandalf stood. "Suit yourself," he said. "But bear the tale in mind. It will surprise you what people will do for gold."

0-o-0-o-0

The sun set quickly and soon the torches were lit within the camp. Still, though, the elves were busy, moving weapons and supplies to wherever they were needed. Men walked amongst them, and they seemed to be at ease around the elves in a way Bilbo couldn't understand.

There was a lot he felt he didn't understand. His thoughts kept straying back to the Elvenking, his answer to Bilbo's question. It hadn't actually been an answer, of course, but Bilbo still wondered what he meant by it.

He found himself wandering through the main avenue that seemed to have sprung up down the centre of the camp, large fires spread out across the cold frozen ground. Elves were beginning to congregate around the fires, men amongst them, and the lyrical flow of their tongue wound its way through the camp. Bilbo listened, wishing he could understand what they were saying.

There was a large fire outside of a group of larger tents, and Bilbo recognised the one he had sat in front of only last night. About five elves were seated around it, talking quietly amongst themselves. Blond hair glinted in the firelight, and then Legolas turned around to see Bilbo standing there.

"Master Baggins," he said warmly. "Have you eaten?"

Bilbo shook his head and replied that no, he had not, which only ended in an invitation from Legolas to eat with them. Bilbo, slightly reluctantly, sat down on one of the logs amongst the elven captains.

"Here," said one of the captains, passing over a bowl and spoon to Bilbo. "It's stew. Not quite sure what type, as we're a little low on supplies for things like this, but it's good enough." Bilbo took it with a murmur of thanks. It was warm, and slightly spicy, if he couldn't quite tell what made it up.

There were five elves around the fire in total. Rhavaniel was not there, but Belhadron and Legolas were sat together on one side of the fire, and three other captains introduced themselves to Bilbo. For a while Bilbo merely sat there eating, listening to the elves talk amongst themselves. He couldn't get enough of their language. It was different from what the elves had spoken in Rivendell, sounding less cultured and more natural, as if it was the tongue of the birds and the trees themselves. Bilbo supposed that maybe it was. The wood elves certainly seemed closer to their realm than those in Rivendell had been.

Belhadron briefly got up and disappeared into the shadows. After a few minutes he returned, and this time his dog was trotting beside him. At a soft word from Belhadron, the dog bounded forwards to greet the other captains. They laughed, one or two feeding him scraps of food as Belhadron came over and sat back down.

The dog came over to Bilbo next, and pushed his head into Bilbo's lap with a soft whine. Legolas laughed. "Umor," he admonished. "Leave him alone."

"I don't mind," said Bilbo, scratching Umor's head. The dog huffed, and leant more heavily on him. "He's a lovely dog."

One of the other captains laughed. "He's a menace," he replied. "But that's our fault, I suppose, so we have to live with it." He clicked his tongue, and Umor raised his head with a sigh. "Don't protest," the elf said with a laugh. "You are actually trained, you know."

Umor dropped his head and then padded over, dropping down onto the ground in front of the fire. Legolas grinned, and reached over to ruffle his fur. "How are you doing, Master Baggins?" he asked. "Do you need anything?"

"I am quite alright, Legolas," Bilbo said with a smile. "It's just been a long day."

"I'm sure it has," said another. "But it is over, and we can relax until tomorrow." There was a murmur of agreement from the others around the fire, and then the talk turned to light things. They stayed in Westron out of courtesy to Bilbo for the most part.

"Do you have family, Master Baggins?" asked one of the others, after one of them finished telling a story of something their cousin did centuries ago. Bilbo shook his head, wondering why he was being asked this again.

"Well, I have cousins and aunts and uncles like everyone else," he replied, much as he had said to Thranduil earlier that day. "But no close family or anything." He looked around at the captains around him. "What about all of you?"

One of the captains looked over at Bilbo. "We've all got some family, of course," he said. "I have two sisters, and then he," he said, indicating another. "Has a wife back home. She's probably one of the only people holding the realm together at the moment. No children yet, but we're only waiting." There were laughs around the fire.

"I'm married," the third captain said with a laugh as she tossed her hair back. "With two children who are both back home with my husband, who's a healer. One of them is serving in the home guard, the other is training as a blacksmith."

"You also have a very extended family of cousins and nephews and nieces," Legolas said to her. "You don't get to spend much time with them, though."

The captain cut him off with a laugh. "I don't want to spend much time with them," she said, grinning. "There's a distinct difference."

"As long as I never have to meet that second cousin of yours again, I am content," muttered another, to general amusement. All of the captains had met him that time, and been deeply unimpressed.

"You had Amdar," said Legolas to Belhadron, who nodded with a brief grimace. "His brother," he clarified to Bilbo. "But he died a long time ago. And your parents are…"

"Complicated," replied Belhadron with a laugh. That was a slight understatement. They were his parents, but they had long resented him for doing the same thing that had killed their younger son centuries ago. They didn't live near the stronghold, and didn't often come near it. The only times were when Legolas had sent for them if Belhadron had been particularly badly injured, and even then they never stayed for long.

"I'm sorry about your brother," Bilbo found himself saying. Belhadron shrugged.

"Long time ago," was all he said.

"And you, Legolas?" Bilbo asked. Legolas smiled softly, but there was a tinge to it that could be grief, if looked at in the right light.

"I have some distant cousins, in a way," he said. "You met Lord Elrond, did you not?" Bilbo nodded. "Did you meet his sons, Elladan and Elrohir? Technically, they are my cousins, if not directly."

"How are they your cousins?" asked Bilbo. He hadn't personally met them whilst in Rivendell, but had seen them from a distance, Gandalf explaining briefly who they were. "Aren't they…well, not wood elves, begging your pardon?"

"Their mother's father is my grandfather's cousin, on my father's side," Legolas said with a smile. "So we are cousins, in a way. It gets complicated. But I do not see them all that often, being separated by mountains and our duties. Most of the time it's just my father and me. Has been for a long time now. But we do well enough." Belhadron, sitting next to him, let out a short bark of laughter. He muttered something in their own tongue that had Legolas biting back a grin, and half-heartedly shoving him in retaliation.

The talk turned to lighter things once more, the elves sharing a few tales amongst themselves, half forgotten snatches of songs in different tongues. Legolas seemed to be the only one who knew a few of their songs in Westron, for some reason, and he sang a few verses of some of them under his breath. One of the elves fetched cleaning supplies and put them on the floor in easy reach of everyone. Soon enough, they were going over their weapons once more, cleaning blades and checking arrows.

"Do you have a blade, Master Baggins?" asked one of the captains. "It would be better if you did not do any fighting, of course, but we should make sure you are prepared."

"I have this," said Bilbo, drawing Sting. "It's not much of a sword, I'm afraid, but it's done well enough so far."

"May I?" the captain asked, holding out one hand. Bilbo nodded, and passed Sting over. The captain looked at it, and then suddenly seemed to start, and look more closely. He turned the blade over in his hands, suddenly handling it as if it were precious.

"Legolas," he said, his voice low, not looking up from Sting. "Do you read the Beleriand mode at all?" He indicated the script flowing down the blade.

Legolas looked over, and then his eyes widened. "I can read a little," he replied. "May I look at your sword, Master Baggins?" At a nod, he took it from the captain and studied it intently. He looked surprised.

"This is…" He let out a low whistle. "This is incredible. The blade, if I remember my lessons correctly, is of the Gondolindrim."

The other captains all looked up. "You aren't serious," said one. "You can't be. Those people all died long ago."

"Not all," pointed out Belhadron. He looked at Sting over Legolas' shoulder, in awe as Legolas turned the blade over in his hands.

"How did you come by this?" asked one of the captains. "All those blades were thought to have been lost long ago."

"A troll cave outside Rivendell," replied Bilbo, taken aback at the awe with which the captains were handling Sting. "Gandalf has a proper sword, though. Glamdring, I think it is called."

"Glamdring," Legolas repeated with a frown. "The name sounds familiar." He thought for a moment, and then shook his head. "I can't place it. If I heard it during my lessons as a child, I have forgotten the significance." One of the others got up eagerly, decided that they were going to find Gandalf to see this sword. The rest of them turned their attention back to Sting.

Bilbo was a little confused, and maybe a bit humbled, by the sheer awe and wonder in their faces as they passed the blade around amongst themselves. Legolas saw his expression, and tried to explain.

"Did Elrond explain much of this blade's history?" he asked. Bilbo shook his head, and Legolas looked surprised. "I would have thought Elrond would have done so!" he said. "But never mind. I remember enough from my lessons as a child. This blade was borne by a soldier, probably, in one of the most famous elven kingdoms that has ever existed."

Bilbo raised his eyebrows, and Legolas laughed. "Did you think this was elven might?" he asked, gesturing around him. "This is nothing compared to the might and power of the First Age. This blade is a relic of that might, of an age long since passed. I never thought I would see something like it."

"There is name?" asked Belhadron. He gently took Sting out of Legolas' hands and turned it over, marvelling at the perfect balance and weight, the easiness of the grip.

"I called it Sting," Bilbo said. "After it dealt nicely with some spiders." All of the captains laughed upon hearing that, and a few murmured curses about spiders for a moment.

"Sting," said Legolas rolling the word over his tongue. "It is a good name." He took Sting back and handed it almost reverently back to Bilbo. "And a good blade for you, I think," he said. "But it does need looking after, still. Would you like me to show you?"

Bilbo nodded. "If you wouldn't mind, of course," he replied. Legolas laughed softly, and then moved so he was sitting next to the Halfling. He whistled under his breath, and when Umor looked up, he pointed at the pile of cleaning supplies. "Cloth," he said. Bilbo laughed in surprise when Umor heaved himself to his feet with a huff and picked up a cloth from the pile, padding over to Legolas and dropping it in his lap. Legolas murmured something and fondly ruffled Umor's head. The dog flopped down at his feet with a sigh.

"The blade needs cleaning first, before we can sharpen it," Legolas said. He took the cloth and wetted it with a waterskin nearby, handing it over to Bilbo.

Bilbo took the cloth and began to wipe the traces of dried blood and mud from Sting. "What do you know of Sting's history?" he asked.

Legolas shrugged. "I am no scholar," he said. "But I have had a lot of lessons in our history. I could tell you a fair amount about Gondolin, what happened to the city and the people. Watch that you don't get the leather too wet, or it will shrink."

Bilbo nodded, and used his sleeve to dry the hilt off. "Please do," he said, a sudden curiosity awakening in him as he thought of elven realms far away, the tall fair people who used to live, wield blades like Sting. Legolas smiled, and nodded.

"Gondolin was a city in the first realm," he began. "In that time, there were lands to the west, where the Sundering Seas are now, and there lived many elves. Gondolin, it was said, was one of the fairest cities ever created by my people." He continued his story as he showed Bilbo what to do, staying away for the most part from the wars and battles. Instead, he told Bilbo of the great expanses of wilderness, the woods of Doriath and the great river Sirion, Gondolin and the Courtyard of the Kings, the great valley hidden within the mountains and the people there who made it their home.

Soon after, Gandalf came to the fire to find Bilbo and the other captains listening closely as Legolas told Bilbo what he knew of the First Age and Gondolin. He contented to stay just out of sight and listen for now, with a smile slowly curving his lips as Bilbo asked another question as Legolas showed him how to sharpen Sting, the curiosity banked into a steadily burning fire in his voice.

Eventually he joined them, and the captains spent some time marvelling at Glamdring, the sword that had been wielded by the King of Gondolin, who was at one time the High King of the Noldor, himself. Regardless of the politics, the ancient dislike between their races, to the captains it was fairly ancient history. They had forgotten all of it in the face of relics of their past, reminders of a distant time.

The conversation flowed for a while, the captains and Gandalf trading off on telling stories and tales. It was mostly whatever came to their minds, old tales of the First and Second Age mixed with more recent stories beneath their own boughs. Bilbo was called upon to tell a few, of the Shire and his home, but for the most part he just listened.

Belhadron, not having a good enough grasp of Westron to tell stories in it, mainly listened, humming a song under his breath. At a lull in the conversation, Bilbo looked over at him. "What is that song?" he asked. "If you don't mind me asking."

Belhadron looked surprised, but soon answered. "It is old traditional song," he said.

"An old traditional song," corrected one of the captains with a grin. He turned to Bilbo. "It is one of those songs that everyone seems to know without ever consciously learning the words. It doesn't really have a name, but in your tongue, it would probably be called O Summer Woods. A lot of our songs are about such things."

"Would you like to learn it?" asked Legolas. "I'm afraid we don't have nearly enough time to teach you all of it, but we can teach you some verses in our own tongue, and then translate them for you."

"I would love to know it, if it's not a bother," replied Bilbo. "I know plenty of songs, all from home, but they are for sitting in front of the hearth, about food and cheer. None of them are great songs fit for such company."

Legolas laughed. "Why should they not be fit for us?" he asked. "If we teach this to you, then you shall give us one of your songs, if you could. Food and cheer are valuable things, and we would like to hear them."

Bilbo nodded. "Alright then," he said, and the captains began to teach Bilbo their song. Gandalf, watching quietly from where he was sat, smiled as their light voices rose and fell amidst the dark night and the sparks of the fire slowly spiralling up towards the stars above.


	15. Impeccable Timing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I ended up using a few bits of dialogue directly from the book. I worried over this a lot, but eventually couldn't skirt around the conversation, and the way I write, if it happens in canon it happens in the story, including conversations. Besides, I wanted to include Thranduil's famous line: 'Long will I tarry, ere I begin this war for gold'. I hope it all works out.

There was a growing pain in Bard's chest as he stumbled through the day and into the night. All of this, all that was happening now, had hardly been what he had intended to set out to do. He had just wanted payment, not war. He didn't want people to die.

He looked around and, once confirming he was alone in this corner of the camp, sank down onto a discarded crate. He choked back something that could have been a sob, if he had been inclined to give in to it, and buried his head in his hands. He tried not to notice how much they were trembling.

He didn't even see the person standing in front of him before they cleared their throat. Bard jumped, quickly pulling his hands away and clenching them into fists to try and hide the way they trembled. Judging by the knowing look on Rhavaniel's face, for it was Rhavaniel who had found him, she had already noticed.

She sat down opposite him, cross-legged on the floor. Bard raised his eyebrows. "What?"

The corner of her mouth quirked in a smile. "You're worried."

Bard managed to scoff. "I'm fine."

"I watch people for a living," Rhavaniel said. "And you are worried." She held his gaze, no malice or anything in her eyes, merely searching. Bard only looked back for a few seconds before his head dropped.

"I cannot do this."

Rhavaniel cocked her head to one side. "You have to."

Bard, despite himself, almost grinned. "That's not a very comforting answer."

Rhavaniel laughed softly. "I'm not a very comforting person," she replied. "Kindness and comfort are not really favoured traits back home, and with what we see they tend to be lost pretty easily. Not many of us who have been fighting for very long have managed to hold onto them. Legolas, out of all of us captains, has done the best."

"I know what battles can do," Bard said. "I know what you can lose. I'm not naïve. But..." He ran a hand through his hair. "All those people dead. All those live destroyed, and it looks like I'm about to drag more people into it."

Rhavaniel shook her head. "For the sake of your sanity, if nothing else, you cannot think like that," she said firmly. "Were any of your men forced to come here? No, they all chose to do this. And they will choose to follow you. Trust me on that. I've been listening."

"I'm not sure if I should find that comforting or worrying," muttered Bard. Rhavaniel smiled.

"The former, definitely," she said. Bard still looked worried, and she leant forwards, balancing her arms on her knees. "Nobody would follow you if you were not worth following, Dragonslayer." She sighed softly. "I cannot give you the answers you are looking for. I cannot tell you what is going to happen, because I do not know. But we'll come through the other side. We always do."

"Really?" asked Bard. "I doubt that."

"I was attempting to be comforting," Rhavaniel said. Bard laughed roughly, and she shook her head with a grin. "We might come through all of this in the end. We just have to live through it and see."

Bard nodded, but his gaze flickered from her and off into the darkness around them. Rhavaniel looked steadily at him, picking up easily enough the clenched fists and slight tremor in his hands. "You are afraid," she said.

Bard huffed a bitter laugh. "I am terrified," he admitted. "I've never…" He paused, his hands clenching around nothing. "I don't-" He sighed. "I've been out of my depth since I fired that arrow from amongst the burning wreckage of my home. And I just…" He gritted his teeth. "I'm finished waiting around. I'm done with it all. I don't care anymore about the consequences or the politics or anything like that. I just want to finish." He clenched his jaw, gaze not moving away from the shadows behind her. "But yes, I am afraid."

Rhavaniel inclined her head. "We're all afraid, even if we've become very good at keeping it hidden," she said. "None of us, save our King and perhaps a few others, have been in a situation quite like this, on the edge of a battle away from our home and what we know. But do you want to know a trick? Something that might save your life?"

Bard nodded. "Please," he said.

Rhavaniel leant forwards. "Fear is a powerful thing," she said. "Dangerous, but powerful, and you can use it." She tapped Bard's chest, over his heart, and looked up at him. "Take it," she said. "All this fear, all this grief and despair and everything in between, and turn it into anger."

"This despair will get you nothing," she said, her hand briefly resting on Bard's chest. "This grief and fear will not let you move. Believe me, I know. But turn these things into rage, into anger at the world for what it has done to you, and you will have something to fuel you when everything else is gone."

Bard blinked, and she smiled ruthlessly. "How do you think we have survived for so long? The world has done an awful lot to us. We have a lot of fuel."

"You must be careful, of course," Rhavaniel said, leaning back and letting her hand drop. "You cannot lose control. Being angry at everything is useless. You cannot change everything. But turn that anger towards what you can change, and you may be surprised at what you can do."

Bard let out a long breath. "By the end of all of this," he replied. "I think I am going to have been surprised by a lot of things. But thank you."

Rhavaniel tilted her head to one side. "I think you will survive, Bard," she said softly. "I think you will do far more than that." Without another word she stood, and Bard watched as she turned and melted into the soft shadows around them.

0-o-0-o-0

"Stay safe."

Legolas smiled slightly. "I know what I am doing," he said. He was standing in Thranduil's tent, and it was late at night. Bilbo had excused himself to sleep already, and they were preparing for tomorrow now. The air was slowly gathering around them, thickening and pulsing with the beginnings of something. The captains had soon lost any ease they had worn when talking with Bilbo once the Halfling had left, their thoughts turning back to what they could not, and would not, ignore.

"This is not the same," Thranduil said. "You have never fought in open battle before, only underneath trees. I do not doubt your skill or your heart, Legolas. I never have. But you must understand that this may turn into all out war, in the end, and it is unlike anything you will have ever seen before."

Legolas dipped his head in acknowledgement. "We will be as ready as we can be," he said. And he was speaking the truth. They had had days to prepare for something like this, and their army knew their positions and roles. They would continue to ready themselves throughout the night, but Thranduil himself had ensured that everyone knew what to do, if something like this happened.

"I will not lose you," he said fiercely to Legolas. "Do you understand? I cannot."

Legolas blinked in surprise. "Of course not," he said. He, like all the others who had fought for a while, knew one of the tricks to surviving battles: believe that you will come through the other side. They never thought of death when they were fighting, not unless it really did seem inevitable and there was nothing they could do. They never thought they were going to be killed. So far, the belief had held.

Bard stepped into the tent, nodding when he saw Legolas. "My captains are ready," he said to Thranduil. "And Captain Rhavaniel asked me to relay to you that she has archers and spearmen ready to move out to the eastern slopes when the Dwarves arrive tomorrow." Thranduil nodded.

Legolas bowed his head. "I will leave you," he said. "There are still things that need my attention." He smiled sharply and then ducked outside. Thranduil watched him go for a brief moment, and then turned to Bard.

"Are you ready for this?"

Bard nodded, leaning on the back of a chair in Thranduil's tent. "Yes," he said, determined. Rhavaniel's words had played on his mind for the past few hours, and slowly he'd begun to see what it was she had been talking about.

His mind drifted back to what Gandalf had told him earlier, of Thranduil's past. Laketown had just been that, one town. He could not imagine an entire kingdom being razed to the ground. And if the Dwarves had been prepared to sack that kingdom, then he doubted that they would have many reservations about attacking Thranduil's host, and his men. And so he had pulled up that grief and fear, and set a spark to it. Now there were only the slowly weakening barriers that held it back.

"I am prepared," he said. "So are my men. We'll stand in front of this accursed mountain if we have to. We are getting our payment." He paused, and when he next spoke there was a rough edge to his voice.

"Are you still standing with us?"

Thranduil raised his eyebrows. "I am here," he said simply. He shook his head slightly. "If you do not win your cause, then your people will starve. Your town will never be rebuilt. Dale will never be rebuilt, and there will cease to be men in the east. But I also will not see this history repeat itself."

He smiled sharply. "I know Gandalf told you of the history between my people and the Dwarves," he said. "I know he does not know if I actually saw those things come to pass, or whether they are stories handed down from my father to me."

His voice grew determined, a bitter and sharp edge to it. "But I will not see innocents suffer and die because of gold and jewels," he said. "Not again. I will not see people lose their homes, lose everything they had, because others were too prideful and stubborn to admit their fault and pay for their mistakes. And I cannot sit idly by and watch children cry, watch them perish." The shadows of old memories, of smoke and screams and blood, flitted briefly across his face.

Bard nodded, and the barriers fell even further. "Thorin and his companions destroyed my home," he growled, the beginnings of rage seeping into his voice. "They destroyed my people. We have nothing because of him. And Dain will not pass; will not aid him any further until we have our payment. I will not see one more child die. I will not see anyone else burn."

"No more," he agreed, a cold anger beginning to burn within him, mirrored in Thranduil. "Not this time."

0-o-0-o-0

The next day dawned overcast, with a chill in the wind that swept through the camp. Legolas and Belhadron were up with the rest of the captains before the Sun, preparing for what they knew was going to be the deciding day. Indeed, Rhavaniel hardly seemed to have slept last night, already having been out to the scouts and to put elves far out on their eastern perimeter, to wait for any signs of Dain and his Dwarves, before Legolas and Belhadron had even gotten outside.

The two of them stood with Rhavaniel on the eastern edge of the camp, watching the Sun rise for a brief moment.

"Something is coming," murmured Rhavaniel. "Something…"

"Bad," Belhadron helpfully supplied. "I know. I can feel it too. There's an edge that wasn't there before." An edge to what, he couldn't quite say, but it was certainly there. They, as wood elves, were intrinsically tied to the world around them. They could tell when things were wrong.

Legolas shook his head. "I will trust your words on that," he said softly. "There's something, but I just cannot quite catch it." He was Sindarin, if only by blood, and was not quite as attuned as the two Silvans beside him to the world under their feet. But he relied on them, trusted them, and they all knew something was near.

They only had the luxury of a few minutes before they had duties to attend to, and they went their separate ways. Legolas went to speak to his father and Bard, finalising a few details before everything really began. Belhadron stalked the perimeter of the camp restlessly, snapping at any elves that were not quite meeting whatever standards he had set in his head for today.

Rhavaniel turned, and headed back through the centre of the camp. She wanted to find Gandalf, see if there were any details he had forgotten to share with them. Instead she found Bilbo, sitting quietly in front of the ashes of last night's fire, elves and men passing around him with barely a second glance to the Halfling staring at the small blade balanced across his knees.

Rhavaniel paused, and then walked over. "Are you ready, Master Baggins?" he asked.

Bilbo looked up. His face was pale, and Rhavaniel recognised the look of perseverant hope that this was not, in fact, happening, and the terror that it was. Bilbo sighed, and then shook his head.

"No," he said softly. "I don't think I ever could be."

"Your tenacity and courage may surprise you," Rhavaniel replied with the slightest of smiles. "I think there is a lot more to you than perhaps you do not see." When Bilbo frowned, confused, she merely tilted her head. "I have spent my life reading people, finding out what they are good at and what they can do. And I have never met anyone else like you."

"That's…very kind, I suppose," Bilbo replied. "But there is nothing more to me, I am afraid."

Rhavaniel shook her head. "I have been watching you, Master Baggins," she said. "I do not know much about you, which is strange for me, I must admit. But I have been watching, and listening." Bilbo frowned again, and Rhavaniel smiled softly. "You broke your fealty with Thorin in order to protect him. That is loyalty, above anything most of the elves here would do. And you are kind. It is all too easy to forget how much kindness can do."

Bilbo ducked his head, and Rhavaniel's smile faltered slightly. Her gaze grew distant. "Your blade will not fail you," she said softly. "As it will not fail those who may bear it next. You will all find your courage, in the end."

In the next moment she shook her head, returning to the present. "One way or another it will be over soon enough, Master Baggins," she said with wry smile. "If you will excuse me, I have things I must attend to if we are to be ready."

Bilbo nodded and she drifted away, grey smoke on a cold wind over the bare stones. He watched until she was gone and then stood. If his hands shook whilst putting Sting back in its sheath, then he merely sucked in another breath and clenched his fists briefly, before going to find Bard.

0-o-0-o-0

The trumpets rang out, piercing the air, and every man and elf leapt up upon hearing them. The call to arms had come.

Rhavaniel's spies had spotted Dain's army. The elves and the men began their final, frantic preparations, gathering weapons and putting on the final pieces of armour. Thranduil and Bard were deep in discussion as they prepared, going over the final preparations that they had told their respective peoples yesterday and again this morning. They were ready, for negotiations or a battle or anything in between.

Within their tent, Legolas pulled on the armour that Thranduil had given him what seemed like months ago. Belhadron whistled softly upon seeing it, but didn't say anything. He stepped over and helped Legolas fasten the final pieces of the armour, the plates sitting over the top of everything across his shoulders and chest. Legolas checked Belhadron's for him, tightening a few fastenings and adjusting the plates across one shoulder.

There was a muted silence in the tent for a moment. They hadn't spoken since the trumpets had called out. Legolas nodded. A fleeting smile crossed Belhadron's face, and he clasped Legolas' arm as best he could in reply.

They picked up the weapons they had briefly put down, their bows and quivers, Legolas' long knives and Belhadron's sword and short dagger. Finally, their helms, and then they stepped outside.

0-o-0-o-0

The five hundred or so Dwarves approached from the east. Upon reaching the eastern bank they halted, but a few continued on, putting down their weapons.

Bard watched them from the edge of the camp, and glanced back over his shoulder to where Thranduil was standing, watching. The Elvenking nodded, his head held high, and Bard drew himself up.

"Come, Master Baggins," he said, reaching for the anger he'd set alight last night, now burning brightly. He destroyed the barrier and pulled it up, the images of children burning and homes falling in showers of sparks, the screams of people and the desperate shouts as families were torn apart, as everything they had known burnt around them. He let it fuel him, burning throughout to seep into his bones and anchor him, hold him strong. "We must greet our visitors."

Thranduil watched as they moved away, Bilbo trotting slightly to keep up with Bard's long strides. The man was already clothed in armour, sword at his hip and bow across his back. Perhaps better than anyone Thranduil saw the rage settling slowly through Bard. After all, the same tide threatened to spill over him as well. It was only centuries of experience that kept it at bay.

Legolas came to stand beside him. "We have spearmen and archers in the eastern rocks," he said. "They went out as soon as the call to arms came. Rhavaniel is commanding them, and another of the captains beside. We have them, if needs be."

Thranduil inclined his head. "We must hope it does not come to that," he said. "I trust everything is ready?"

Legolas nodded. "We will do what has to be done," he said. "And we will follow your orders." Of course they would, there was no question of that. Nevertheless, Legolas said it. Whatever happened to them all today, any guilt would not just rest on Thranduil.

They watched as Bard conversed with the emissaries of Dain. It was only a short conversation. Thranduil knew what would happen: Dain's people would ask to pass and Bard would refuse. The Dwarves would not dare strike him down, especially not with Bilbo present, and then Bard would return and the Dwarves would go back to Dain.

Soon enough, Bard turned away. Thranduil could see the change that had come over him, the sudden release of everything he had been keeping surprisingly well hidden. Bard moved quickly back to the edge of the camp, Thranduil coming out to meet him. Around them elves and men moved under the command of their captains, readying for the battle that was looking more and more likely. The Dwarves were moving along the eastern bank. Soon enough they would come into range of the spearmen hidden there.

Bard looked fey, a cold light burning in his eyes as he approached Thranduil. Bilbo looked a little scared of him. "They will not pass us!" exclaimed Bard to Thranduil. "They try to move already, head along the eastern bank, but we are prepared. We are ready for them."

"Fools!" he said with a laugh. "To come thus beneath the mountain's arm. They do not understand war above ground, whatever they may know of battle in the mines. There are many of our archers and spearmen now hidden in the rocks upon their right flank. Dwarf mail may be good, but they will soon be hard put to it. Let us set on them now from both sides, before they are fully rested!"

Thranduil shook his head, looking to temper the fires a little to prevent recklessness. "Long will I tarry," he said, "ere I begin this war for gold. The Dwarves cannot pass us, unless we will, or do anything that we cannot mark. Let us hope still for something that brings reconciliation. Our advantage in numbers will be enough, if in the end it comes to unhappy blows."

He and Bard contested the point a little, but ultimately they were of the same mind. The Dwarves would not pass. A messenger was sent up to Thorin, but was just greeted with arrows. Upon his return, Thranduil raised one hand, and then the remainder of his army that were not hidden away moved forwards. The men congregated around Bard, as regimented as they could be. Gandalf was nowhere to be found, but Thranduil had long since stopped worrying about the Istar when he disappeared.

Thranduil, resplendent in his armour, made a fearsome sight as he strode out in front of his army. Legolas flanked him, Belhadron at his shoulder as usual, whose dark eyes were continuously scanning the Dwarves. Bilbo was close by them, hands only trembling a little. Hands were near weapons, resting on the hilts of swords or the bow. The very air itself seemed to gather around the two armies as they slowly neared each other.

Bard and Thranduil were still contesting, a little, and kept the elves and men behind them from approaching the Dwarves too closely, lest they appear to be striking open war. They waited.

"A final word of advice," Thranduil said in a low voice to Bard as they looked back over their peoples. "Do not think of death. Do not believe that you can die. Arm yourself with that, and it may very well come true." It had saved them before, their own minds, and it would do so again.

Bard nodded, the fires within him steadily burning as he regarded his men. They all looked steadily back, trusting in him. A few days ago, even, that would have made him nervous. Now, it was as if something within him had broken under all that grief and rage. He had no trouble, in this moment, believing that he would not die.

A sudden shout went up from one of the captains. The Dwarves, whilst Thranduil and Bard had been debating, had made a move. The elves hidden on their right flank had sprung up out of their hidden places to contest them, and both were poised to fight. Arrows were on strings, spears and axes gripped in hands as they waited for it all to tip over.

The Dwarven army surged forwards, weapons ready. At a signal the elves moved forwards lightly over bare rock and stone to meet them. Bard strode forwards with Thranduil, his sword drawn and down at his side. Thranduil's own sword was in his hand, the steel blade dulled in the weak grey light.

Legolas had an arrow nocked to his bow, though the point was pointed down still. At a signal from Belhadron the archers behind them reached for their arrows. The Dwarves began to rush forwards, those contesting the elves in the eastern slopes already nearing their targets. The elves there responded, arrows pointed unwaveringly at the weak spots in their armour. Spears were poised to throw.

Thunder suddenly cracked overhead. Great dark clouds rolled in from the east, smothering the sky. The wind picked up, twisting in the hair of the elves and sending it whipping across their faces.

"Halt!"

Gandalf stood where a moment ago there had been bare stone, arms upheld and staff stretched out in front of the advancing Dwarves. Lightning flashed behind him, as if coming from his own staff. His voice carried on the wind and, from the power so often hidden within him, it boomed over them all.

"Halt!" he cried again, his voice thunder, the sound of ancient mountains and storms. "Dread has come upon you all!"

The two hosts stopped in amazement and confusion, for even as Gandalf spoke the sky darkened further. To the elves, they could feel the darkness beginning to creep upon them, the shadow that preceded the terror. Some of them cried out. Thranduil held up one hand, and they stopped. On the other side of Gandalf, Dain did the same.

Thranduil and Bard stepped forwards as Gandalf finished speaking of the orc army already approaching, the far greater evil that was coming. Dain did the same, though more cautiously. Gandalf turned from one side to the other.

"We have little time!" he called out. "We must prepare whilst we still can, before the armies of the North descend on us. Put aside your grievances, your quarrels. There is a greater cause here now!"

Dain seemed to be considering it. Gandalf's word was known to all to be true, and the Dwarves could see the darkness approaching themselves. Bard seemed to have drained of his reckless rage in the face of such onslaught, and he now stood silent. Thranduil regarded Gandalf with narrow eyes.

It was he who broke the brief silence first.

"As always, Mithrandir," he said, his sword lowering to his side. "Your timing is impeccable."


	16. Who Gets Back Up

They took quick counsel together, if a little reluctant initially. Gandalf glowered at Thranduil as he hesitated in moving over. "He is not your enemy, Thranduil!" he declared in a low, if angry, voice. "Get over your problems and work with him."

Thranduil gritted his teeth. "Once this is all over, Mithrandir, we are going to have a long discussion about timing and not telling people potentially harmful information."

"And I will listen to you then," Gandalf replied archly. "But now, we do not have time to stand here bickering like children. You have lived for over two Ages of this world. There has been too much stubbornness and hatred for even an elven lifetime. If you can look past it, for the love of all the Valar, look past it now."

Thranduil's gaze briefly searched the skies, the dark clouds swiftly gathering above them. His jaw worked as he looked back down, his gaze tracking over something behind Gandalf that the wizard could not see. He paused, and then slowly inclined his head.

"For once, Mithrandir," he said. "You may just be right." Without another word, he turned and began to walk towards Dain. He stopped next to Bard and Gandalf watched as he talked softly to the man for a few seconds.

Gandalf turned back around to look at the men and the elven army behind him. He wondered what it was that had finally pushed Thranduil's mind in the right direction. His gaze fell on the front row of the elves, and as Legolas steadily nodded back, blond hair whipping across his face where it had escaped from the braid, he didn't wonder anymore.

Of course it was more than just that. Allying with Dain was the only rational choice here, the others potentially condemning them all to death. Thranduil was a good king, perhaps the greatest of the Third Age. He would not endanger his people more than was necessary. If that meant bowing his head and letting go of long-held beliefs, then he would do that. But seeing what he needed to protect had no doubt pushed him, if just a little.

Thranduil had finished persuading Bard, who looked confused now, with no direction for his grief and rage. But the man nodded, and then the two of them walked towards Dain and his army. As they did, Thranduil lifted his sword and then slowly sheathed it, his hands falling to his side.

Gandalf hurried forwards, coming to them as they met. Thranduil stiffly inclined his head. "Dain," he said in a fairly cold greeting. "This is Bard. I suppose you know of him already."

Dain looked over at the man. "Dragonslayer," he said. "If you weren't standing in our way with an elven army and the Arkenstone in your pocket, then I might actually be grateful for what you have done." Bard narrowed his eyes and his hand lingered on the hilt of his sword. Gandalf sighed loudly.

"Stop this," he said. "We do not have much time to form a plan, and you are all wasting it with idle threats and bickering!" All three gazes turned to him, Dain and Bard serious, Thranduil with what almost looked like the beginnings of a wry smile on his face. Sometimes Gandalf felt he didn't understand the Elvenking at all.

"We have an orc army approaching," he said. "We will all be dead if we stand here and do nothing. The issues we all came here for can be solved once we are not in danger from such an event. For now, we need to work out how we are going to attack." He regarded them all sternly. "You are not each other's enemy. Or do you forget that Dwarves fought in the Last Alliance along with Elves and Men?"

He gestured to the north, where the clouds were darkest, the wind strongest and from where the darkness was slowly creeping towards them. "The enemy is there," he said. "They have always been the enemy, ever since your forefathers first fought them in lands long forgotten. Your past grievances are nothing compared to the war we have all waged on that darkness and oppression. And we will do so again today, if you could just. Start. Behaving!"

None of them spoke. Gandalf huffed. "Right then. What are we going to do about this approaching army?"

0-o-0-o-0

"I'll set my archers along this ridge," Thranduil said, looking up towards the mountain from where they stood at the mouth of the valley. They'd already fleshed out a plan, as much as they could with their limited information, and now they were settling on where to place their people. "I can put about four hundred there, and distribute the rest where they will be of most use."

Dain nodded. "We'll take the eastern spur," he replied. "If you have the southern."

"I'll set my men with you," Bard said to Dain. "If we have three thousand elves on the southern spur then we hardly need five hundred men there." He studied the mountain. "I'm going to get as high as I can on the eastern spur, up the mountain with a few of my nimblest men and maybe a few elves." Thranduil nodded in agreement, and Bard continued. "Where will the points of command be established?

"I will set up my command near this point," Dain said, indicating a higher up area on the eastern spur from where they stood. "Thranduil, you have Ravenhill on the southern spur. That's got the best point for command."

Thranduil merely inclined his head. "Do you need archers?" he asked. "I can spare some from my companies."

"I do not need any of your archers," replied Dain tensely. "My Dwarves can manage well enough, thank you." Thranduil's expression hardened, and Dain straightened up.

Gandalf cleared his throat. "Cooperate," he threatened, and the two subsided. Gandalf shook his head. It could have been worse, though.

They talked quickly for a few more minutes, agreeing on the movements of their troops, their signals and when to strike. Gandalf only had to send one more warning look in their direction before they had agreed, and were, for the most part, ready.

Thranduil held up one hand, and almost instantly his captains were swiftly moving over. Dain did the same, and Bard called for his few captains. The elven and Dwarven captains kept apart, the men siding with the elves, but nobody was fighting anyone else, so Gandalf counted it as a victory.

"Wait," said Bard suddenly. "We still don't know how we are drawing the orcs into the valley." There was a pause, and then Thranduil and Dain exchanged a knowing look.

"We'll need a front," said Dain. "We'll need some people to stand at the head of the valley and draw the orcs in."

"But whoever does it," continued Thranduil. "Will most likely be killed." He looked up around him, at the surrounding captains, the armies behind them.

Someone cleared their throat, and then a man, one of Bard's captains, stepped forwards. "If you don't mind, my Lords," he said, bowing his head. "I know a few men who would be willing, myself included, to do this."

Bard's face paled. "Artom, it's suicide," he said. "You'll be the first the orcs see. They'll cut you down, or try at the very least."

The man- Artom- shrugged. "What do we have to lose?" he asked.

"Rather a lot," replied Thranduil evenly. Artom shook his head.

"With all respect, my Lord, myself and these men have nothing left. Whatever we had was destroyed by Smaug, and we're not getting any of it back. We don't know how we could go back to those gaps. Maybe it is easier if we don't. If this is needed, then we will do it."

Bard still looked shocked, but he reeled it back in with a visible effort. "If…if you really want to," he said.

"Want to and need to are two different things," replied Artom. "But we will do it, Bard. Besides, we owe you this much at least. You saved all of us. Think of this as repayment, for that and everything to come."

Bard bowed his head, quiet for a moment. Dain looked up. "The thanks of the Dwarves go with you," he said. "And the prayers of Mahal."

"The thanks, and the remembrance of the elves, also," added Thranduil. "May the Valar be with you."

Artom bowed, and then at Bard's nod turned back to the men behind them. There was silence for a few moments and then Thranduil and Dain, used to such things by now, returned to the matter at hand.

Thranduil relayed his orders to his captains, sticking to Westron for now. At the same time Dain did the same, and Bard joined in after a few seconds. "Set up the spearmen in front," Thranduil said to his captains. "Archers behind, all staying hidden. Set the greater numbers near the mouth of the valley to cut off the orcs if we need to." There were nods from all of them, their faces stern but prepared.

Bard's men looked more worried, whilst also not quite believing what was happening at the same time. Bard gave them his commands clearly and carefully, the rage dampening down into a steadily burning fire as he found purpose for it once more. Dain's Dwarves looked much like the elves. They had been through this all before, if not to this extent.

"Rhavaniel, your people will be spread out amongst everyone, both our own people and the men and Dwarves," Thranduil said. "You yourself will go with Bard up to the highest reachable point on the eastern spur with your five nimblest scouts. Watch everything, and keep him as safe as you can, at least until there is dire need of you within the battle itself. You know what to do." Rhavaniel inclined her head.

Thranduil looked to the other captains each in turn, detailing their positions. "Legolas," he said finally. "Your archers are to be spread out amongst the entire army, rather than acting as a single company in one position. They will do the most damage to the orcs that way, and can bolster any weak positions. This means you and Belhadron are to be stationed up on Ravenhill, our command position."

Legolas nodded in agreement, turning to look up at the southern spur of the mountain. Thranduil inclined his head to all of them. "Do what you know," he said. "Do your jobs, and may the Valar be with you." The captains all bowed and turned away, heading back to the army.

Gandalf stopped at Thranduil's elbow, Bilbo at his side. The Halfling looked decidedly pale, thought Thranduil. Gandalf shook his head slightly. "So far, it is going to as much of a plan as there ever was," he said.

Thranduil found himself smiling wryly at that. "When has there ever been a plan that has actually worked?" he asked. "You will stand at Ravenhill during this?"

"My old friend," Gandalf said with a rough bark of laughter, sounding strange in the air. "Where else would I be?" He sighed, watching the armies begin to prepare to move out, receiving their orders. "Legolas will be there as well, I overheard. I know his company is to be spread out amongst the army, but surely he should be in the midst of it as well?"

Thranduil shook his head. "I cannot risk him in that way," he said. "Not unless I want to risk everything." Gandalf frowned slightly, and Thranduil sighed almost inaudibly.

"Allow me this one act of selfishness, Mithrandir," he said wearily. "Just this one. For the love of the Valar, let me keep him safe."

Gandalf's gaze softened. "Just this one," he agreed. Thranduil breathed a quiet thank you, and then things began to be set in motion once more. The Elvenking straightened and turned away, back to his people. Gandalf watched him stride across the bare stone, and a small part of him that was not focused on what was coming was impressed by the strength in those shoulders, when it seemed as if his past was just beginning to repeat itself once more.

0-o-0-o-0

Bard walked out in front of his men. They looked nervous, he saw, not quite able to stand still. Some of them already had their weapons drawn, though the tips of the swords rested on the ground.

Bard briefly shut his eyes, and found once again that rage, that grief. It had tempered now into steel, still hot but sharp. He pulled it up, feeling it settle deep into his bones, and knew that this fire would not burn out soon.

He'd realised now that there had never been any barriers or walls to this rage. He'd only put them there, in his own mind, because he was frightened of what it could do. But he saw his error now. All that fear, all that grief, it was useless without the anger burning through him now, an anger that was as much a part of him as anything else. It had already settled deep within his bones. He would use it, if it would save his life and the lives of those around him.

He opened his eyes, drawing in a breath of chill winter air.

"This is not what we came here for," Bard said, addressing his men. "We came for payment. We now find ourselves standing against destruction."

The men stepped forwards a little and his voice grew, becoming louder as he pulled himself taller. "I know that you are scared. I know that you are wondering if you will see the other side of this. But that does not matter. What we have found ourselves in is a greater cause than we could have ever imagined. There is a greater price that we might pay, but the reward here is far larger than anything we could have been thinking of. If we win, we win our continued freedom and our lives, the lives of everyone that we love and all those that are to come."

His gaze travelled across his men. "We are not the armies that once stood upon this earth. We are not the might that existed in the tales of lands long since lost. But we are here. We are standing, and we will protect those we love. It will be enough."

Bard paused for a moment, collecting the right words in his head. Out of the corner of his eye he saw some of the elves gathering around him, the Dwarves as well. He raised his head. "Think of those back home, those waiting for our return. Think of those we have lost already. And remember those who may still be to come, the children that are not yet born in homes not yet built. That future only stands because of what we do today. Stand up, and then do this for that future. Do it for them."

There was a moment of silence, and then the shouts erupted from the men, his men, as they called out his name, shouted out in defiance of the darkness that was coming for them. Bard nodded, holding their gaze as he unsheathed his sword in one fluid motion.

The men moved first for their positions, their blood running hot in their veins. The Dwarves headed after them for the eastern spur. Bard turned and inclined his head to the elves around them, before nodding at Thranduil. He turned for the mountain, and perhaps he held himself a little taller as he walked away.

Thranduil turned to his own army, his own people. The elves gazed steadily back, and he knew he did not need to tell them what to fight for or what to believe. He held their gazes for a moment longer, before inclining his head.

"You know what to do," he said. "Let it be done."

0-o-0-o-0

Thranduil's gaze moved steadily over the valley beneath him. He watched his elves moving quickly into place, crouching down amongst the rocks on the spur. From where he stood he could still see them, their armour now dulled in the weak light, the occasional flick of a cloak caught by the chilled wind. From the other side of the valley, he was sure that they would be invisible.

With his sharp eyes Thranduil could make out the Dwarves on the eastern spur, and the men amongst them. Bard was a small speck still climbing up to get as high as he could to watch everything that would unfold below. Rhavaniel he could not see, but he would have been more concerned if she was visible. She would be there. He had absolute faith in his captains.

With that thought, Thranduil turned to check that Legolas was indeed with them. He was standing a little below him, off to one side amongst the grey rocks. Belhadron was checking over his weapons next to him, going through both his and Legolas' arrows with deft fingers for one last time.

There was the sound of shifting rocks underfoot and then Gandalf and Bilbo reached Thranduil. "We're ready?" asked Gandalf, coming to stand beside Thranduil.

Thranduil nodded. "We are prepared," he replied. "Now we merely have to wait." He glanced down at Bilbo. "Are you ready, Master Baggins?"

Bilbo glanced up at the Elvenking towering above him, in his armour, sword by his side. And something, something that had been slowly growing inside him ever since he had run out of his front door without a handkerchief, allowed him to pull Sting from it's sheath and steadily nod.

He didn't know where it had come from, didn't know how he'd found it, but there was a steady courage smouldering in his bones. He was still afraid, he was terrified, but he was here. There was nothing much he could do about it.

Thranduil nodded back, and then moved away down the slope a few paces to where Legolas and Belhadron were waiting. Without a word Belhadron moved away, coming up to stand beside Gandalf. He huffed a wry laugh at Gandalf's raised eyebrow.

Bilbo watched, confused, as Thranduil stood with Legolas, speaking softly as he clasped Legolas' shoulder. Legolas responded with a few words and the hint of a smile, and then Thranduil briefly pressed his forehead against Legolas' with an almost inaudible sigh. For Bilbo, suddenly everything fell into place as Thranduil pulled back and turned away. As soon as he did his shoulders straightened and his usual mask fell back into place.

Bilbo gaped at his realisation as Thranduil returned to them, but the Elvenking did not notice. Instead, he turned to Belhadron as the elf made to head back to his position. "Belhadron," he said, his voice low.

Belhadron bowed his head as he stopped. "My Lord?"

"You orders," Thranduil said, his voice low. "The ones that I do not give you unless we are in a situation like this? Those are your orders now. Do you understand?"

Belhadron inclined his head. "Of course, my Lord," he said. "I honestly would have assumed those orders were in effect nonetheless." At Thranduil's nod he turned and moved back to his position once more.

Gandalf raised one eyebrow at Thranduil, who narrowed his eyes slightly. "Just this one," he reminded Gandalf. "This one act." Gandalf sighed, but nodded.

"He's your son," Bilbo said suddenly.

Thranduil turned to him. "Legolas," Bilbo said. "He's your son. That's why he's up here, rather than further down in the valley. That's why…" He trailed off. Actually, it explained quite a few things, like all the elven history he had known and the stories and tales the other captains had not heard of.

Thranduil inclined his head. "He is my heir," he said. "And my son. And we are at war." He turned back to look over the valley, and the short conversation was over. Bilbo looked back over at Legolas, and he wondered how he had not seen it before.

0-o-0-o-0

The first real sign of the approaching army was the storm of bats and carrion birds that flew above them. They came whirling down through the valley on the foul wind, and everyone in the valley crouched low amongst the rocks as they passed over. Rhavaniel, high up on the eastern spur, pressed herself lower into the boulders as they began to pass over.

"Can they see us?" Bard said from where he was crouched next to her. Rhavaniel nodded.

"Undoubtedly," she replied. "But don't worry. The orcs could not understand them if they tried. And they will not be able to see us, if they even bother to look."

"Not a very high opinion of them?" Bard asked. Rhavaniel laughed under her breath.

"You've never fought them before, have you?" she asked. "They're vicious, and they're brutal, but they're not very smart. They will see the men in the valley and they will not hesitate. We'll trap them easily enough between these spurs."

"And if there are more than we thought?" asked Bard, his voice low. "If they come over from the other sides, or over the mountain?"

Rhavaniel shrugged. "Then we deal with it," she said. She looked over at Bard. "Remember," she said, tapping her own chest lightly, over her armour. "Use it."

Bard nodded. He lifted himself up slightly, looking out over the valley below them. "They're coming," he said, his voice barely a whisper amongst the many that the wind already threw at them.

Rhavaniel glanced across the valley, to where Artom and his men were standing. She could see the first dark shapes moving across the horizon, descending from the north upon them all. "They're here," she confirmed. "And we come to it at last."


	17. Not Dying for your Recklessness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the fighting really starts here- trigger warning for, well, what happens in battles. Rhavaniel especially can be a bit brutal when it comes to her fighting style.  
> This chapter is a bit shorter, and I apologise for that, but it's just the way that the story fell out, because whilst writing I don't specifically write for chapters, I just write. Hope you enjoy.

Artom and his men stood against the onslaught for longer than Gandalf would have thought possible. It was only when they were on the brink of being overwhelmed, most of them already cut down that they turned and ran for the rocks either side of them. The orcs spilled over like a dark wave, rushing heedlessly into the valley.

The elves around Gandalf seemed frozen, waiting with bated breath as the orcs came further and further into the valley. They knew this was the plan, were only waiting for the command to move, but Gandalf could see them all counting down the seconds with each breath.

It was that strange moment where, for a brief few seconds, they were suspended in time, clinging to the side of the mountain. For this few breaths that they took they had halted, and it felt that time, like the army of orcs below, was rushing past without taking any notice of them. But each second, each breath counted down to the moment when they would rise. Gandalf knew that many of them would not be able to tell if they wanted that moment to ever come.

The more experienced would know that what they wanted did not matter. The moment would come soon enough.

The signal was given and then the archers on the slopes of the southern spur stood, a sudden gleam amongst the bare rocks. Before the orcs knew they were there the arrows had been loosed from elven bows, the sing of them cutting through the foul air and filling the valley. Every arrow found its mark.

The spearmen rose up below the archers, and then they charged, defiant shouts rising up through the valley, over the top of the howls of the orcs and the shrieks of the bats circling overhead. Their hatred for the orcs was great enough that their weapons shone brightly even though the sky was dimmed, flashes of bright steel against the bare rocks.

Gandalf watched as they fell upon the orcs and the creatures were pushed back in disarray. Some of the elves, almost definitely the less experienced ones, cheered as orcs fell underneath the elves' feet, and Gandalf saw Belhadron openly wince at the sound. He felt inclined to agree. They had only just begun, and plenty of things could go wrong.

The elves retreated and then the Dwarves engaged from the other side, the men amongst them. Gandalf could just about see the arrows falling from high up on the eastern spur, where Bard had situated himself.

Bilbo shivered at Gandalf's side. He couldn't even seem to form words. Gandalf looked down, and then rested his free hand on the Halfling's shoulder. It would be worse later, when the fighting inevitably came to them and he saw everything close up. For now, a large part of the horrors were not close enough for him to see.

For a while, Gandalf actually thought things weren't going as badly as he had feared. Of course, that is when things began to go badly.

Orcs had scaled the sides of the mountain and were now dropping down from above. Gandalf unsheathed Glamdring and beside him Bilbo tightened his grip on Sting, holding the sword out in front of him as if the mere sight would fend off the orcs fast approaching. Both of the swords were glowing in a pale light, steadily growing brighter in their hands.

Around them, the elves all had their weapons ready. Legolas and the archers surrounding their King, Gandalf and Bilbo had arrows nocked, and began methodically picking off the approaching orcs once they came in range. Gandalf heard Legolas call out commands as he ducked one of the orc's arrows, Belhadron quickly taking down the orc that had fired the bow with a well-aimed arrow to its throat.

Soon enough the fighting intensified and Gandalf found himself in the middle of it. He lost track of Bilbo soon after the orcs first reached them, but though he was worried, he had more pressing matters on his hands. Besides, he had a good suspicion of what Bilbo had done to disappear so easily.

Thranduil was fighting nearby, bright sword easily cutting through leather and piercing armour, and Gandalf was reminded just how dangerous the Elvenking was, how much he had seen. He was cutting through the orcs like it was nothing. To him, with the memories of the Last Alliance most likely seared into his mind, this probably was fairly little in comparison.

Gandalf adjusted his grip on Glamdring, focused once more on what was directly in front of him, and then stepped forwards to meet the blow of yet another orc.

0-o-0-o-0

Bard shouted out a curse as the orcs began swarming over from above. "Weapons!" he cried out to the men around them. His hands had already gone for an arrow and he picked off an orc almost without thinking, the black body toppling off the rocks and down into the valley below.

Bard didn't watch it for long, already reaching for another arrow. The elves with him were encircling the men as best as they could with only five of them present, giving them eyes all around the area. Rhavaniel appeared at his side, her compact bow singing underneath her hands.

But soon they were running low on arrows, and no matter how many they shot down or stabbed the orcs kept coming. Rhavaniel shot one last arrow off and then stowed her bow, drawing her long knife. "We're too exposed here!" she called out so Bard could hear her over the deafening noise around them. "We need to move back down to more stable ground!"

Bard was reluctant to give up their high ground, their vantage point, but with a glance behind him realised that they were too far from the main host. If they were overrun then they would have no help from behind them. He nodded, and then realised that Rhavaniel was far too busy to see him nod, so he shouted back.

"Let's move!" he called out, first to her and then to the others around them. "Get further down to better ground. Go!"

The men started to skid down the steep slopes, the elves following more gracefully afterwards. They didn't turn their backs, still watching the approaching orcs, and Bard and Rhavaniel herded them back, both staying at the forefront of the battle. An orc jumped down ahead of the others and Rhavaniel darted forwards to meet it, long knife dancing as she swiftly dodged his clumsy blows. Before too long she drove her knife through his eye and shoved the body to one side, her hand and knife coated in the black blood.

The orcs were wary for a few moments, but the numbers coming from behind them pushed the orcs in front forwards and they soon hurled themselves down the steep slopes towards the small group of elves and men. Rhavaniel skipped back and the five elves pushed the men behind them, the habit of protecting the innocent too deeply ingrained for them to do anything else.

Bard muscled his way past one of the elves to come to the front once more, and they held their ground for a few minutes against the orcs. One rushed them and Rhavaniel rose to meet it, duelling fiercely for a few moments, long knife against curved scimitar. Just behind her Bard had his bow out and was shooting at the orcs approaching, using up his last few arrows.

Rhavaniel ducked a sweeping blow and kicked out, making the orc's leg buckle and collapse. In the same movement she came up with her knife and blocked his next blow, before plunging her knife into his throat. With a gurgle, the orc fell and she ripped the knife away.

"Rhavaniel!"

She spun upon hearing her name to see the three orcs barrelling towards her. One of her elves with them stepped in front and took one of them own, darting around the orc's blows. One of Bard's men joined him, and Rhavaniel turned to meet the other two approaching her as the man and elf fought their own battle.

The first blows from the orcs nearly caught her, as she ducked one to come into the range of the other. She threw herself sideways to avoid it, hitting the ground hard with a flash of pain shooting up her right arm.

There came a pained shout from nearby and Rhavaniel jumped to her feet in time to see the man fighting that orc fall to the ground, blood gushing from a large wound to his head. The elf with him reached down as the man struggled to get back up, and that was his mistake, for the orc brought his blade round and struck the elf's side, enough force behind the blow to send him sprawling.

In the next moment the orc brought his scimitar down on the elf who was dazedly trying to rise, bring his weapon up. The blade cut through the elf's unprotected neck and he slumped back down, dead. The man next to him swung out his sword in an attempt to stay the orc, but it did nothing and soon he was still, the rocks beneath him stained red as blood slowly leaked from deep wounds.

Rhavaniel heard another of the men cry out in rage, or maybe pain, and as she ducked another blow she turned her head, just briefly, to look behind her. Orcs were beginning to overrun their position. There weren't enough of them to hold the tide off.

"Get back!" she called out, staying in Westron for the benefit of the men around them. She parried another blow and then pulled back, grabbing Bard's arm and pulling him with her as he tried to get off another shot. "Pull back to the main host!"

Bard fought off her grip and selected one of his final arrows. He stepped back a few paces, putting a little distance between him and the orcs in front, and then sighted. Behind him the rest of the men and the elves were scrambling down the slopes, though both were a little reluctant to do so with Bard and Rhavaniel still above them.

Rhavaniel nearly turned and left. She rather valued her own skin, and had her own people to look towards. But at the same time her King had given her orders to keep Bard safe. More than that, she could see what he meant to his men, even to the elves who had lived alongside them for two weeks now. It would be a bad idea to let him get killed.

She sighed, and then flipped her knife in her hand. "Bard," she hissed in his ear. "You might think this is valiant, but I swear to the Valar, I am not dying for your recklessness! Now get back down!"

Bard looked over at her, stunned. An orc howled in front of them and Rhavaniel shoved Bard back, knife coming up to block the blow. The force reverberated up her entire arm, already weakened from the fall earlier, and Rhavaniel bit back a shout of pain as she felt something snap. She dropped back, the orc suddenly pitching forwards, and she switched her knife into her other hand, bringing it around to slash at its face.

"Are you alright?" Bard shouted to her as she pulled her knife back, the edge dripping with blood. Rhavaniel nodded, and then the two of them stepped back down, shielded by the scavenged arrows being shot from behind them at the approaching orcs.

Rhavaniel ignored the pulsing pain from her arm, and got the group, what was left of them, back down to the edge of the main host. Bard only had three other men left with him, Rhavaniel four of her elves, but they remained at the edge of the fight. There were no more bowmen left around them, if there were any more arrows anyway. Her own bow was near useless with a broken arm, though she would use it if she had no other option.

A quick glance to the other spur showed that they were in much of the same position, and another let her know that the valley was in utter chaos. Men, elves and Dwarves were fighting there, and the battle had begun to turn against them there, orcs flooding over their positions. It was like watching rocks washed over by waves. They would reappear, but the constant tides were slowly wearing them down until, eventually, they would disappear.

In between fighting she kept an eye on the situation all around them. It was in the midst of a bout with yet another orc, one of the many she had dispatched so far, that she heard the great crash. She could feel the ground shake from the impact, and it took a lot of her effort to keep her focus on the fight in front of her. The orc was not as focused. Its head whipped to one side, and she took the opportunity to bury her knife in its neck.

A moment of rest won, she looked down to see what it was that had happened. And even she was surprised by it.

The gates to Erebor, the gates that had been blocked by great stones, were now open. The stones had crashed to the ground, settling in clouds of dust. And thirteen Dwarves were running from the gates. Great cries went up from Dain's Dwarves and even the men as Thorin Oakenshield led his companions from the gates of Erebor into battle.


	18. A Higher Authority

The fighting was worsening, and even Gandalf was beginning to accept that this might end badly for all of them. Thorin Oakenshield and his companions had burst from the gates of Erebor in an impressive display, but ultimately it damaged their prospects more than helped them. For a while their fighting, especially that of the Dwarves, was renewed, but soon Thorin drew too many people down into the valley to rally to him. The elves mostly stayed put, but a lot of the Dwarves and quite a few of the men ran to him. Thorin, in a display of poor tactical planning, pushed on heedless of the orcs on his sides, and his flanks were soon unguarded and threatened by the sea of orcs around him.

At that point Gandalf had to turn back to his own fight, could not spend any more time watching and worrying about Thorin and the others. He focused once more on the orcs, and the elves, around him.

Legolas and Belhadron were near by, of course. Gandalf knew that Thranduil was keeping one eye on them, as the Elvenking would occasionally turn in their direction, pause, and then gracefully turn back to his next brief opponent. The other elves around them were fighting, pushing back at the orcs until the ground was dark with blood, but the orcs kept coming.

Gandalf watched, too far away to help, as an elf was cut down brutally by a massive orc wielding a hammer. The orc smashed the elf into the ground, crushing him underneath his feet on purpose, and a cry of rage came from someone nearby. There was the sing of elven bows, and then several arrows sprouted from the orc’s armour, but it didn’t stop him for very long.

Another elf stepped into his path, and landed a wound to the orc’s arm before he was thrown to the side like a discarded puppet with one swing of the hammer. The elf tumbled down the slope that was to one side of them, down into the melee below. If he hadn’t already been killed by the blow, he was dead now.

Gandalf himself headed forwards towards the orc, cutting through the orcs around him with practised sweeps of Glamdring, the sword already so comfortable in his hands. But before he could get close enough, stopped by a fairly quick orc that took a little time to dispatch, Legolas and Belhadron stepped up to meet it.

They traded off between blows, one keeping the orc busy whilst the other repositioned themselves or shook off the latest blow. But the hammer barely touched them, the two dodging the swings rather than attempting to block. Gandalf snatched brief moments to watch their dance, all of their training coming into place as they stepped around each other without a word.

Legolas leapt behind the orc, slashing at its throat, and when the orc spun Belhadron brought his sword around in an arc of bright steel to stab at his side just below the armour. The orc howled in pain and rage and in that moment Legolas cut in, spinning low with Belhadron covering him as he sliced at the orc’s leg.

The sharp blade of his knife cut through the muscles and tendons of the orc’s leg and it stumbled, coming down to its knees. Belhadron leapt forwards and with a sweep of his sword, his body twisting, he dealt the orc a deep blow to its chest.

The orc lashed out at them, rented armour screeching as torn plates moved over each other. Belhadron danced back out of reach, and Legolas moved in to deal the final blow. But as he did the orc swung out with its hammer in a desperate move. Legolas lunged backwards but the hammer caught him, hitting him in the chest and sending him reeling backwards. Belhadron stabbed the orc and turned in one movement, but he wasn’t quick enough, and Legolas, legs knocked from underneath him, fell down the slope behind him.

Gandalf started forwards as he saw Legolas fall, but he was too far away to do anything other than watch as Legolas disappeared from view. But before Thranduil had even shouted Belhadron was moving, sprinting across the rocks. He jumped over the fallen body of an elf and then launched himself down the slope.

Legolas was trying to stop himself, flinging out an arm to slow down, but he could do little at the speeds he was falling. Belhadron slid on his side down the slope, not even bothering to try and run. Instead, he used his armour, the vambraces on one arm and the metal plates on his side to protect himself as he skidded over the rocks in a barely controlled slide.

Finally Legolas tumbled to a halt and tried, in a daze, to get back up to his feet. He came to his knees but stumbled and fell back down, holding himself up with one arm. Belhadron, dust showering around him, skidded down the final yards between them and then jumped forwards, staggering on his feet as he regained his balance. He reached for Legolas, grabbed the back of his quiver and pulled.

Legolas stumbled to his feet, yanked backwards and up by Belhadron’s grip. Belhadron held onto his arm as he regained his balance and then they moved back to back. Legolas had lost one of his knives, and he pulled a few arrows from Belhadron’s quiver, but his stance was unchanged, and soon they were fighting fiercely as the orcs noticed them.

“We need to get back up,” Belhadron shouted over his shoulder. Legolas, at his back, nodded. He didn’t pause as he fought, and the blood flowed freely down his cheek from the deep scrapes he had gotten from the fall.

“Go,” he called back. “I’ll cover you.” He moved around and stabbed an orc that was coming towards him, easily getting under the orc’s guard to reach his unprotected neck.

Belhadron shook his head. “Can’t do that,” he replied. “You get up there. I’ll have your back.”

“Now is not the time,” Legolas said, pausing to parry a blow. “To question.” He stabbed at the orc, pushing it off to one side. “My orders!”

“I have a higher authority than you,” Belhadron shouted back, grabbing Legolas’ arm and pulling him back up the slope. “Now move!”

Legolas slashed at another orc and glanced back up towards Ravenhill and the elves gathered above them. If he hadn’t been in the midst of a battle he might have argued the point, but he didn’t, and allowed Belhadron to none too gently push him back up the slope as his second watched his back.

They worked their way back up step after painstaking step, fighting against the slope and the tides of orcs behind them. After a time Belhadron and Legolas traded places, Legolas defending Belhadron’s back as he took a brief break from the constant fighting that occurred when there weren’t any other elves around to stem the flood.

They were about three quarters of the way up the slope, close to Ravenhill now, when a sudden cry came from somewhere above. Their heads snapped up upon hearing it, weariness falling from their shoulders as the cry sounded again and was taken up by those around them until it echoed from the mountainside.

“The Eagles are coming!”

Legolas turned, looking behind him at the clouded dark sky. Belhadron grabbed his arm and pulled him another step up the slope, but not before Legolas’ eyes found the shapes of the great curved wings against the whorls of cloud and thunder. The Eagles were coming.

0-o-0-o-0

The Eagles had arrived, and now Rhavaniel watched, in between fierce bouts of fighting, as the battle began to turn in their favour. The orcs above her were being cast off their perches by wicked talons and the beats of strong wings, and the men and Dwarves below were rallying now, pushing away weariness and despair in favour for an anger that burnt bright and fierce.

She hadn’t remained in one place since moving back from their vantage point high on the eastern slopes, leaving Bard to the command of his men. Instead she had taken to darting amongst the seething masses, appearing when a knife was needed and moving on soon afterwards to the next orc. In this way she found herself further into the valley than she had intended, slipping between the towering orcs that found themselves dying before they even saw her blade, if she was careful.

Her arm was still broken, her bow still useless with it, but she had learnt long ago how to cope when there was nothing else she could do except continue. She met two of her spies working together on the edge of the thick of the fighting and they stayed together for a little while as they cut their way through the valley to where they could do the most.

Down in this melee, the Eagles were of little use. They couldn’t sweep through the orcs without killing a lot of people at the same time, and here it would be easy to think that they were losing. Of course, the thought did not stray into her own mind. She kept it fairly well guarded against such things.

Thorin Oakenshield was near, the Dwarves remaining around him falling upon the greater orcs, the bodyguards of Bolg. Rhavaniel stayed nearby, but did not attempt to engage them directly. She knew her own limits. She could not go up against them and survive, and it was a fight that belonged to Thorin, though it may kill him.

Indeed, she saw who she thought was one of his nephews stumble and fall as an arrow hit him. She watched between blows of her own as Thorin screamed in rage, watched him finally realise he was too far out, too unprotected in the midst of orcs and blood and death. An orc leapt forwards towards the wounded nephew, his younger brother scrambling to protect him, and Rhavaniel found herself moving before she truly thought about it.

She switched her knife back to her broken hand and plucked a short dagger from an orc’s belt, stabbing it in the neck as she ran. The orc ahead of her was dealing heavy blows to the other nephew, and perhaps it was his desperate face, the desire to die for his brother that prompted her to flip the short dagger in her hand so the point was between her fingertips, and then throw it with unnerving accuracy. Even though he was a Dwarf and she had never seen him before, she recognised his face. The fury, the terror, the love; she had seen it all many times before.

The dagger found its mark, of course, and the nephew looked around as the orc crumpled to the ground. Rhavaniel found herself silently urging him to focus and move onto the next danger, and then found herself surprised at the relief she felt when he did. She melted back into the melee, her knife long since blackened with blood. Thorin Oakenshield had his own battle to fight, and she had hers. She had lent what help she could, and she only hoped it would be enough.

It was only a few minutes later that she saw, through a momentary gap in the waves, the other nephew fall, his armour rent with axe and spear and sword. From where she stood, she could not see Thorin Oakenshield.

A sudden roar reverberated through the air around her. The sound grew as a wave, washing over the writhing sea beneath it, and then Rhavaniel watched in disbelief as on the edge of her sight she saw orcs beginning to turn and run, scattering as something tore into them.

In the next moment a great bear ripped into the masses of orcs, sending them splintering like weak wood hit by a great blow. Orcs were tossed away as the bear plunged into the heart of the mass, and they were waves breaking on an immovable rock, small and fragile against this new might.

Rhavaniel was too close. She was caught in the riptide, flung sideways by a great orc barrelling into her. A dying orc’s blade collided with her arm and her armour gave way beneath it. The blade plunged into her already broken arm, digging deep until it was ripped away in a trail of blood that was dark in the weak light. She could feel the blood pulsing from the wound as she fell, the flesh ripping further as she hit the ground.

Above her, she could hear the roars of a great beast in anger and pain, and her own screams, before her darkness found her once more and gathered her tightly in its familiar embrace.

0-o-0-o-0

Even after hearing such a thing so many times, the sudden absence of the sound of steel clashing against steel was still strange.

The noise of clashing steel had died abruptly as the orcs turned and ran away, flooding out of the valley and scattering across the ground. Beorn ploughed through the final orcs that remained, but there were few of them now. When he had taken down Bolg, the leader of the orc army, the rest had abandoned it all fairly quickly.

Now the wind carried the voices of the wounded up towards them, the cries and screams and desperate moans that still turned his stomach though he had heard it so many times before. Thranduil pushed it from his mind for a moment longer, because there were things that they needed to do.

Soon enough those who were still standing had gathered in the valley, standing amongst corpses of orcs and elves, Dwarves and men. Bard hurried down from the eastern spur to find a flurry of activity already. His men were grouping together, looking shocked, and he swiftly told them to begin the search for the wounded. The Dwarves were listening to orders from Dain and were beginning to split up, some joining the search for wounded and some beginning to head back to where they had stashed their supplies.

The Elves were somewhat less chaotic than the Dwarves, and certainly far less than the men. They grouped together around their captains and their King. Before Bard even reached Thranduil the captains that were still standing split away and started to shout out orders.

Legolas was gathering elves around him, Belhadron at his shoulder. Bard recognised the elves as the elite of Thranduil’s army, those who made up the small companies commanded by the captains themselves. Legolas, deep scrapes and blood across one side of his face from some fall, called out orders in a clear voice and the elves stepped forwards to answer, looking deadly even though they were covered in dust and dirt and black blood. Legolas spoke briefly to Thranduil and then the company moved off. Even the elves seemed to move slower over the stained ground, the blood sticking to the soles of their feet and pulling them down.

Bard walked towards Thranduil, who was watching the rest of his elves begin to move away in groups. “My Lord,” he said. “How bad is it?”

Thranduil turned. “Not as bad as it may look,” he replied. His gaze travelled across the valley again. The wounded and dead lay scattered like winter leaves between the black carcasses of the orcs. Bard had become accustomed to the stench of it all. “Not as bad as I have seen it before.”

Bard shook his head, trying to stop his mind from making it worse, adding in more of the dead where there were living instead. “What do we need to do?”

0-o-0-o-0

In the end, they had quite a lot to do. Legolas had led the first group out scouting to hunt down the orcs that had fled, but other groups of elves followed after a few hours, spreading out from the mountain to track them down. A few groups of the Dwarves did the same, but Dain coordinated most of his people with the effort of bringing in the wounded.

Slowly they came into camp, elves, men and Dwarves, bloodied and bruised. Some were limping, leaning on anyone who was there, and some were carried in unconscious, blood dripping from deep wounds. Whoever was there was helping. Men carried anyone they could find off the battlefield and into the camp that was sprawling as the Dwarves added their own next to it. Elves, the most skilled in healing, worked to save as many as they could. Dwarves, those not on the battlefield, took to looking for those less wounded who still needed help, pulling out the supplies they had just brought for anyone who needed food or water or a blanket around their shoulders.

There was no time for grudges or old wounds when there were so many fresh ones just inflicted. Once the blood was stemmed, the dead beginning to be buried, then such things would resurface, but perhaps not as violently as they had existed before. They could not keep to their blinded views when they could see the real enemy dead before them.

Thranduil watched briefly from the edge of his camp as people moved over the valley. There was a steady stream of wounded now, and the tents were filling with the sounds that accompanied the injured.

Gandalf appeared at his elbow, one arm in a sling. Thranduil looked over to him. “Old friend,” he said softly. “I always thought I would end up watching this again.”

Gandalf huffed. “I know you did,” he said. “But even you could not have quite seen this coming. Do not think this is something you could have ever prevented.” He took in Thranduil, still in his armour with his sword by his side. He’d discarded his helm fairly quickly and the wind was stirring his hair, the gold dampened by specks of dark blood.

“I could not have prevented this, I think,” replied Thranduil softly. “History repeats itself, if a little different every time. It finds a way. I could haven’t have done anything in the past, and I could not have done much now.”

“You dwell too much on the past, old friend,” said Gandalf, his voice weary and inflected with grief. “We won ourselves a great victory today. Do not forget that.”

“We won ourselves space to breathe,” said Thranduil. “Nothing more.” He smiled ruthlessly for a moment, and Gandalf saw the dangerous glint in his eyes for a moment before it was buried once again. “But I will take every yard of that space for as long as I can. You know I would do nothing else, Mithrandir.”

Gandalf inclined his head. “I should return to the tents,” he said after a few moments silence. “To Thorin.”

“Ah,” Thranduil said. “It is his nephews who are dead, is it not? Rumours spread quickly, and I do not have Rhavaniel to listen to it all at the moment. Oakenshield himself is not believed to survive for much longer, that much I have heard. It is a pity.”

“I’m sure you think that,” said Gandalf with a huff. “But no, his wounds are too deep for even myself to do anything. And yes, it is his nephews who have perished, Fili and Kili.” He sighed. “Make sure to tell your people who are left to keep an eye out for Bilbo, would you? I haven’t seen him come in yet.”

“More experienced people have been killed today,” Thranduil pointed out. “Do not hope needlessly, Mithrandir. He may well be dead.”

Gandalf huffed in annoyance. “He may well be alive,” he retorted. “You underestimated him before, old friend. I think you forget the power behind small acts of courage and kindness. I understand; it’s easy enough to do with everything in your past, but it does not do to forget such things. They may be the saviour of us all, in the end.”

Thranduil looked at him for a long moment. “Maybe so,” he said wearily. “But if they are, then I cannot see it.” He shook his head slightly. “We have a lot of work to do,” he said. “Help where you can, Mithrandir.” He walked away, heading out towards the battlefield.

Gandalf watched him go. “As if I would ever do anything else,” he murmured to himself, before he too turned away and walked back into the camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for that sort-of cliffhanger with Rhavaniel. Well, not really. I did write it, after all. But I can sympathise.


	19. Not So Careless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the only point at which you will see Dwarves, at least in detail- the second scene is between Thranduil and Thorin, and was very difficult to write at first. Obviously, you all probably know what is happening to Thorin at this point in the story, and who is dead already.

He didn't know when he had started crying. He'd been standing there for hours or minutes, he couldn't be sure, when he realised there were tears finding their slow ways down his cheeks. The wind, now fresh from the west, blew past his face and the tears suddenly felt cold. He wondered if the tracks could freeze on his cheeks.

The slowly dying sun cast long shadows across the valley in front of him. Still, his men and the Dwarves were finding wounded and bringing them in. Still, the elves were frantically trying to save as many as they could. He'd entered the large tents they had taken over, intent on finding his men and seeing how they were. He had lasted for about ten minutes before he couldn't take the sounds of the dying anymore, even though he knew he couldn't leave. Someone had come to ask him something and then he was nearly sick with guilt at the relief he felt when he realised he could go.

There was a steady line of figures stumbling back into camp with wounded, silhouettes against the orange sky as the sun set. He watched them steadily move past him, a few of his men nodding in recognition before turning back to their task. Another tear slipped from his jawline and landed on the corner of his armour. He watched them, keeping his gaze away from the bodies littering the valley.

Someone was striding quickly over the ground towards him, burnished under the light of the sun, and Bard jolted back into himself, scrubbing one hand across his face. The figure came closer and then he recognised Thranduil. There was little trace of weariness on his face, though he was spattered with blood and dirt. He carried another elf in his arms, their red-brown hair matted with blood and mud and falling across their face. Bard recognised the muddy and torn cloak as that of Rhavaniel's spies, though he couldn't tell if it was someone he recognised or not.

"Bard," Thranduil said again, his voice low and commanding. Bard once again jumped back into himself. He wondered what two people would think if they looked at them together now: Thranduil, fierce and warlike in bloodied armour with one of his people in his arms, and himself, standing there with tear tracks not yet dry on his cheeks. He shook himself slightly, willing his mind to cooperate.

"Stretcher?" he asked, turning around to look for one. Thranduil huffed, and shook his head.

"It'll be quicker if I just carry her," he replied, shifting the elf slightly in his arms. "Come on." He brushed past Bard and headed swiftly into the camp. Bard glanced down at the small pool of blood that had collected from the wounded elf and willed himself not to throw up. He turned, and ran to catch up with Thranduil.

Thranduil pushed his way into the nearest tent set aside for the wounded and called out something in his own tongue, the elves around them suddenly scrambling to obey him. Thranduil handed the elf over, carefully avoiding moving her injured arm, and Bard saw the mangled flesh and tried not to be sick again. The Elvenking straightened, and then his gaze travelled slowly over the long lines of wounded. He nodded, seemingly to himself, and then began to move amongst them, searching out elves and speaking briefly with those who were conscious, still stopping at those who were wandering far in their minds from the tent as well.

Bard followed him, trying to push back everything so he could check on his men, the ones who were lying here because of following him. By the time he had reached the flap of the tent once again his head was spinning, and he was trying not to stagger and collapse and weep and throw up, do anything but keep moving.

He held himself together with the dregs of anger and rage that he had sparked a lifetime ago. He could not fall apart. He would not let himself fall apart.

Thranduil stepped out of the tent and nodded briefly at Bard. "Keep it together," he warned, watching the man carefully.

Bard let out a breath, and then nodded. "I know," he said, his voice raw. "I know."

Thranduil inclined his head a little, and then turned and walked away, the crowds moving instinctively around him. Bard watched him leave, waiting for the world to settle around him.

Gandalf was at his side suddenly and Bard jumped, catching himself against the tent post. "What is it?" he asked, fearing some other disaster that Gandalf was about to announce.

"Nothing new," replied Gandalf. "Nobody has found Bilbo yet?"

"Not yet," Bard replied. "But we'll keep looking. We're working through the night, for the most part." He didn't add that he didn't think any of his men would be able to sleep anyway, after what they had seen and done. Neither could he. He could still see, if he shut his eyes, those men who first stood against the orcs. Nearly all of them were dead now, discarded on the ground and trampled into the dirt as the orcs had flooded over them. He'd walked past a body on his way into the camp, and it had actually taken him a minute to recognise it as Artom.

"It will become easier," Gandalf said quietly, sensing Bard's turmoil. "The shock will wear off and you will see things more clearly."

"I can't wait," muttered Bard. He let out a long breath. "How can you be so calm?" he asked. "How can Thranduil be so…together?"

Gandalf seemed to consider the question for a moment. "For me, because I am very old and very wise, and know a lot of things. Perspective is a useful thing, sometimes. And as for Thranduil, well…" He trailed off, looking into nothing. Bard felt like he was standing on the edge of Gandalf's memories, perhaps his magic seeping over to him for a few brief moments, and he saw glimpses of the dead under trees and in a black wasteland, and rows upon rows of wounded and dead in great stone halls. And then the images disappeared, if they had ever been there, and he was left watching the shadows thrown out by the sinking sun fall across the stained ground.

Gandalf sighed. "He has seen it all before," he said. "And he has had a lot of practice. Although if Legolas takes too long returning from leading his hunting party then I will worry, if only for the others around him." He looked over at Bard, who was struggling a bit, with everything in his mind already, to wrap his thoughts around what Gandalf had just said. "You seem to be holding it together fairly well."

"Abrupt as ever," Bard said, letting go of Gandalf's comment on Thranduil and Legolas, and looking over at him. "And I'm really not. I have no idea what I'm doing or thinking. I'm just trying to make sure nobody else works that out."

"Smart idea," murmured Gandalf. "But all in all, it could have been a lot worse. For a few minutes of the battle I was actually worried, but we've come through all right so far."

Bard huffed a bitter laugh. "That does not sound as comforting as you might think it does," he said. "But I suppose you are right. It could have been so much worse." He sighed, raking his hands back through his tangled hair. "How is Thorin?"

"Dying," Gandalf said succinctly. "There is nothing anyone can do, but he is still alive for the moment." He looked over at Bard. "You are not angry at him anymore?"

Bard shrugged. "All of this has rather gone beyond what it originally was," he replied. "And Thorin did not bring those orcs upon us." Gandalf could have corrected him at that point, but he kept quiet. Bard paused, gaze straying across the camp around him.

"All that rage," he said. "All that anger, I lost it the moment I stopped fighting. And I have tried to bring it up once more, but it is exhausting, and I just…" He shook his head. "I just do not have enough at the moment to do so. Besides," he added with a hint of a smile. "Why should I stay angry at someone who is all but dead? That seems a little selfish."

Gandalf inclined his head, glad to hear what Bard was saying. "We have all been reminded of who the real enemy is," he said. "And as to what your original purpose was, I imagine you will get your payment from Dain in the end."

Bard blew out a breath, shoving his hands into his pockets. "That is good to hear," he said. "But I should return to all of this. There is still much to do." Yet he still didn't move, feet momentarily frozen in place.

"Keep an eye out for Bilbo, if you could," Gandalf said, clasping Bard's shoulder briefly. He studied the man's face for a moment. "It'll look better in the morning. I promise you that."

Bard sighed. "I really, really hope it does," he murmured. He squared his shoulders and then moved away, heading back to the valley stained dark in the waning light of the sun.

0-o-0-o-0

The sun had set hours ago when Thranduil finally left his people to the cleaning up and walked away. Bard had already nearly collapsed from exhaustion, and was now sleeping hopefully soundly in his tent. Gandalf was being Gandalf, and Thranduil hadn't seen him for a while now.

The Dwarves grudgingly bowed their heads to him as he passed through their camp, two elves bearing blades behind him. Thranduil reached one of the tents and, with a flick of his hand, the two elves took up stances on either side as he ducked in through the flap.

On a lone bed in the tent lay Thorin Oakenshield. His torn and rent armour was discarded to one side, dull with blood. He lay under thick furs, but Thranduil could still see the shivers running through his body, and his face was pale, lips blue as his blood slowly leaked from him. The wounds themselves had been hidden from his sight.

Thorin attempted to push himself more upright, pawing at the pillows behind his head. Thranduil didn't offer to help. He knew it wouldn't be accepted. Thorin soon stilled, his energy sapped by even those simple movements, and regarded Thranduil with weary eyes.

"Thorin," Thranduil said, bowing his head in greetings. His voice was perfectly even, not a single inflection or meaning behind his tone.

Thorin nodded. "Thranduil," he said in return. "The high and mighty Elvenking. Come to gloat, have we?"

"I have come to pay whatever respects I can find to you," answered Thranduil. He took a seat in one of the few chairs in the tent, shifting it so his gaze on Thorin remained unbroken.

"By all means, make yourself comfortable," said Thorin bitterly. "So you do not wish to point out all of my failures and mistakes? That must be unlike you and your people."

Thranduil managed not to rise to the bait, at least partially. "If you knew anything of me and my people, you would know how foolish your words are," he replied. "But I do not wish to dredge up old wounds and arguments. It hardly seems like the right thing to do. You are dying, after all."

Thorin barked out a short laugh with cut off abruptly as he coughed, flecks of blood on his lips. "Abrupt," he said. "But honest. All of my people having been treading so carefully around me. As if death is something we do not know." He shook his head, grimacing at the movement. "They tell me to rest, to keep my strength. They don't know, I think, how much strength I ever had to begin with."

"More than you may believe," Thranduil said evenly. Thorin frowned, and the corner of Thranduil's lips twitched in what may have been the beginnings of a smile. "You came all this way, after all," he said. "And you and I both know that strength alone does not determine your survival."

"My nephews," murmured Thorin, and his voice suddenly sounded so broken that Thranduil, for a brief moment, forgot just who was dying in front of him. Thorin's gaze fixed on the wall of the tent in front of him. "I could not save them."

"No, you could not," Thranduil said. At Thorin's glare, he held up one hand. "I am being honest, after all. They died. So did many others. And not even you, Thorin Oakenshield, can change that."

"Your son," Thorin said, and then smiled weakly when Thranduil started slightly. "I am smarter than you perhaps think," he said. "I know you have a son. I can only guess he is here. Is he alive?"

"He is," Thranduil replied. "And mostly unhurt. He has taken a company of elves out to hunt down some of the orcs that have survived. But I did not think you would care about the life of one elf, especially that of my son."

"I have lost all of my family," Thorin said. "I saw my nephews cut down trying to defend me. I would not wish that pain on anyone but my worst enemy. You are not my worst enemy, Thranduil, even if we dislike each other immensely." He huffed a rough laugh, breaking off to cough up more blood that trickled in a thin line from the corner of his mouth.

Thranduil inclined his head. "Your people fought well," he said, for lack of anything else to say. "Bravely."

"As did yours," said Thorin. "For Elves, at least." Thranduil smiled sharply. It wasn't a friendly smile; there was too much bad blood between them for that, but it wasn't particularly unfriendly either.

Thorin was silent. His gaze found Thranduil's, and Thranduil saw Thorin's trappings falling away as he lay slowly dying. "What have we done?" Thorin asked, his voice weary. "What have I left behind?"

Thranduil tilted his head. "Why do you ask me?"

"Because you are old, and a King," replied Thorin. "And you do not like me. I think you will perhaps know best what is to come of all of this, and you will not soften the blow."

Thranduil inclined his head. "History tends to repeat," he said. "Only with different players each time. The legacy you will leave behind all too shortly will be near enough to the one I was left, far too long ago. You'll be remembered for your pride, and your family's greed. Your legacy will no doubt include warnings against all that you did wrong."

Thorin growled under his breath, and Thranduil held up one hand. "I said include," he said. "Whatever legacy grows from all of this is going to be far more than just your mistakes. There'll be good in it as well. What that good is, I will have to wait and see."

Thorin paused, thinking the words over, and then nodded with a wince. "Well, I suppose not even the great Elvenking can see into the future," he said. "So what was the legacy you were left?" At Thranduil's raised eyebrow and cold gaze, he shrugged with a grimace. "I'm dying. I won't be able to tell anyone soon enough."

Thranduil relented, finding, to his surprise, a small bit of compassion for the dying King in front of him. "You know the tales of the First Age," he said to Thorin. "You can guess at my history, all the horrors I have seen. Because of that, I will not fight over treasure. And now neither will your people." He sighed slightly, leaning back in his chair. "They'll be much stronger now, I'll give you that for your legacy. Your heroic sacrifice, the brave deaths of your nephews, it will be remembered and held up as examples. Something like this happens and you get a lot less feuding within your own people. They'll all band together for the common good." His voice held a slight bitterness to it as he spoke, but Thorin did not appear to notice as he struggled a little to draw in air to his failing lungs.

Thorin grimaced, finding his breath. "Heroic sacrifice are not the words I would use," he replied.

"Neither would I," said Thranduil. "But a person's judgement is so very easily clouded. They'll all pick a way to remember you, and there will only be a few, in the end, who knew who you really were."

"And I suppose you are one of them?" growled out Thorin.

Thranduil laughed coldly. "Of course not," he said. "I will only ever remember you as a Dwarf. Take from that what you will, of course, but I hardly know you well."

"I think you know more than you let on," said Thorin. His voice was weakening, strength fading quickly, but he was nothing if not stubborn and clung to the waking world. "I know you, Thranduil, in that I know myself. We are not as different as we both may like to think." He broke off coughing, face contorted in a grimace.

Thranduil bowed his head. "Perhaps," he said slowly. "Perhaps I will remember more of you, Thorin Oakenshield. Time will yet tell." He stood. "I will leave you to your death," he said.

Thorin hacked out a laugh. "Have they found Bilbo yet?" he asked abruptly. "They have to find Bilbo."

"Why do you wait for him?" asked Thranduil, pausing as he turned away to leave. "What is it about that Halfling that has you clinging to the dregs of your life like this?"

"You and I, Thranduil, we have seen too much," Thorin rasped. "Too much war, or blood, or death, you can take your pick of the horrors. But Bilbo Baggins, he has something that we both lost long ago and didn't even realise." He paused, finding his breath and perhaps the right words. "Maybe we should not have been so careless."

Thranduil nodded slowly. He turned to leave, hand reaching for the flap of the tent.

"Thranduil?" Thranduil paused at the entrance to the tent, looking back over his shoulder to Thorin.

"Your son, what is his name?"

"Legolas," Thranduil replied, his voice strangely quiet in the expanse of the tent. Thorin nodded.

"Take care of him," he said. "Don't let him wander so far down those paths we didn't realise we were on until it was too late. There has to be some kindness left in this world, and we are far too old and weary for that. Do not fail him like I failed my family. Look after him."

Thranduil bowed his head once more. "With my life," he said, hints of pride and fierce love seeping into his voice that Thorin heard. Thorin laughed roughly.

"In another lifetime," he rasped, with the hindsight and clarity of view that came from falling towards inevitable death. "We could have been allies."

Thranduil nodded. "In another world," he said simply.

For the last time Thranduil held the gaze of the Dwarf lying across from him. "Find rest, Thorin Oakenshield," he said. "King Under the Mountain." Thorin nodded gravely, and then Thranduil left. The tent flap billowed in his wake, stirring the motes of dust through the air, and Thorin found a weak smile on his face as he watched them dance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So with this scene with Thorin and Thranduil, I found it really difficult to start, but loved writing it by the end. In another world, I do think they could have been allies, if reluctantly. They're kindred spirits in a way, old Kings who have seen and done too much and know that they are losing. In a way, Thorin almost represents what Thranduil could have become if things had been different- if he'd taken the wrong path, not learnt from the mistakes made by people before him. So yeah, once I came across this train of thought, this got really interesting to write.  
> As always, comments and kudos make my day.


	20. Amongst the Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So guess what I watched at the cinema last night??  
> Captain America: Civil War came out in the UK yesterday, and oh wow it was good. I was trembling with sheer excitement for the first half hour, and then was perpetually on the edge of crying for the last half hour and about another hour after that once I got home- I was so emotional, but in a state of such shock that I couldn't actually cry. I'm going to see it again tomorrow with another friend, and will probably cry at some point.

His return to consciousness was a slow one, sinking up through the edges of broken dreams, the images not staying long enough for there to be anything other than an uneasy sense of confusion at the snatches he saw. As he slowly came back into the world he felt the rough blanket under his cheek, the chill in the air and the hand gently shaking his shoulder.

He blinked, and then the last fogs of sleep fled his mind as he came fully awake and abruptly sat up. The man standing over him stepped back, one hand raised as if to fend off an attack. Bard blinked again. “What is it?” he asked. “What’s happened?”

“It’s morning,” the man said slowly. “I just thought I’d come check you were alright.”

Bard sighed and relaxed with those words, running his hand through his hair. “I’m fine,” he replied, wincing at the rasp to his voice. “How is everything, Haldon?”

Haldon shook his head slightly. “We lost quite a few during the night,” he said. “But the elves I talked to in those tents think that we’ve lost everyone we’re going to lose, if that makes sense. They’re beginning to build the pyres now.”

Haldon filled him in on what had happened overnight as Bard got dressed. Bard held back a sigh at the little more he was told, namely more deaths and more of the wounded being found in the valley. He pulled his coat on, wincing at the pull of sore muscles across his shoulders and back, the stiffness in his legs. He was sure there were bruises across one side where he had taken a hit yesterday, though he couldn’t be bothered to look.

But, judging by what he had seen and what Haldon was telling him, he was lucky indeed. According to Haldon, not even Gandalf had come away unharmed, though the wizard only had a flesh wound. Bard ducked out of the tent, Haldon following him.

“How many?” he asked as he began to walk through the camp, tucking his chin into his coat as the wind bit at his bare skin.

“About a quarter of our men are dead,” Haldon replied, grief colouring his voice. “More than half of the rest are wounded beyond cuts and bruises, with maybe forty still seriously wounded. Like I said earlier, the elves think that we’ve lost all we’re going to lose, but I did talk to one and she said that they, meaning the elves, don’t know much about men and could be wrong.”

Bard nodded. “So we basically have to wait and see what happens,” he murmured. He looked over at Haldon, taking in his rumpled clothes and bleary eyes he couldn’t quite hide. “Have you slept at all?”

Haldon ducked his head in what looked like shame. “I…I couldn’t,” he said. “I just couldn’t.” Bard wasn’t too surprised, in all honesty. He had been planning on doing the same, until Haldon had found him and forced him to go to sleep, if only for a few hours.

“Your brother,” Bard said, his voice softening without him really knowing it. “How is he?”

At this Haldon’s face cracked, his mouth twisting in a grimace. “Alive,” he said. “But only thanks to the elves. They caught the poison on the blade before it could kill him, but they’ve said they don’t know what damage it will have left behind.” A rolling anger seeped into the words he spoke, the edges becoming brittle and sharp as his face darkened. “The bastards,” he spat. “The absolute bastards.”

“They’ve paid heavily for it,” Bard reminded him. “The corpses of orcs far outnumber all of our dead.” But even as he said it, he felt the weight pressing down on his shoulders, and it reminded him of just what they had lost. Even worse, what they had sacrificed, because losing it implied that they had done all they can to keep it. A sacrifice was something they, he, had given up on purpose.

“So what do we do now?” asked Haldon. “Return home?”

Bard nodded. “Or at least to whatever is now there on the lakeshore,” he replied. “We have enough to keep us through the winter, and the Elvenking will lend aid where he can. I will speak to Dain about the gold we are owed from Erebor, for he may well give it to us now.” He sighed, pushing his hair back out of his face. “You go home to your wife and daughter, we go back to the shores of the lake, and we live what lives we have now.”

Haldon nodded, a small smile on his face at the mention of his family. “I suppose we do,” he said. He clasped Bard’s shoulder briefly. “I’m going to check on some things,” he said. “I’ll be around if you need me for anything, my Lord.” The title was weighted in his voice, as if he was reminding Bard of it, and Bard felt himself straighten upon hearing the words.

“Get some sleep soon enough,” he said. “Come to me if you cannot, and I mean that, Haldon. I can’t have one of my captains too tired to think straight.” Haldon ducked his head again, but nodded before he walked away through the camp.

Bard wandered in the other direction, heading first to the tents filled with the wounded. He could stomach it for longer this morning, now his head was clearer. The elves were moving quietly amongst those lying there, Dwarves and elves and men alike. They barely deigned to notice him, and Bard found himself supressing a strange, unhappy grin when he realised the elves acted in just the same way as the healers and midwives he already knew. It appeared that healers anywhere didn’t think much of people who weren't useful to them, or that of the soldiers who just gave them more patients.

One of his captains was there, lying with multiple wounds, a broken leg and a pale, worn face, and Bard found himself sat beside his low bed for a while. The man looked so small, shivering under blankets, that Bard somehow found himself offering cautious hope, telling him about how they’d be going home soon enough, how they’d rebuild, and soon he was telling his captain tentative plans for a new town, small ideas about Dale and the ruins lying there, empty and full of ghosts ready to be laid to rest.

The captain fell back to sleep eventually, exhausted just by still being alive. Bard sat there in silence for a little while. He wondered when his mind had changed, when he had started thinking of the responsibility as his. If he tried to pinpoint it exactly, he couldn’t, but certainly the past day had changed everything. He doubted that the men around him could look to anyone else now, after all they had gone through. He doubted that he trusted anyone else to lead them. And it terrified him.

With a sigh, Bard got to his feet, glancing around the tent as he did so. It was oddly quiet, the occasional stifled moan falling heavily through the air but not much else. He stuck his hands in his pockets and left, dodging around the healers who still didn’t seem to pay him any attention at all.

He had started wandering aimlessly, watching the sun rise up over Erebor, when he first saw one of his men running into camp carrying someone much smaller than themselves. Soon the whispers spread around camp, joining those already dancing on the embers of the fires and the chilled wind. Bilbo Baggins was alive, and had been found.

Bard was glad. He liked the hobbit.

He hurried into the Dwarven camp, arriving at Thorin’s tent just in time to see Bilbo slip inside. The hobbit was still wearing that chainmail he had, and looked tired and bruised, but he was up and walking and not covered in blood. It was better than most people had looked when brought off the battlefield.

Gandalf was there, of course, because he was always there if anything important was ever happening, but he soon ducked back out of the tent. Bard saw Thorin’s companions, the ten of them that were still alive, gathering anxiously around Gandalf, eyes darting between the wizard and the entrance to that tent.

Bard watched silently from a corner as there was a sudden flurry of movement, the Dwarves and Gandalf heading into the tent as other Dwarves gathered around. A hush fell over the crowd as they waited, uneasy murmurs spilling through the air though nobody was, in fact, talking. Bard found himself moving back slightly into the shadows behind him, drifting away from the main bulk of the crowd whilst keeping close enough to hear anything.

There was a slight noise and then Thranduil was standing beside him. “So they found Master Baggins,” he said. “Thorin Oakenshield will not cling on for much longer.”

Bard inclined his head. “It didn’t look like he had much longer when I saw him yesterday,” he said. “I offered him the Arkenstone. He refused.”

“I am not overly surprised,” replied Thranduil. “I don’t think he believed he deserved it. He will have it in death, and that will have to be enough.” He listened carefully to the camp around them. “It won’t be long at all now,” he said. “Thorin will die in the next few minutes.”

Bard nodded. “I don’t think anyone could have recovered from those wounds,” he said softly, thinking of all the men they had yet to lay to rest.

“Those wounds were only the beginning of it,” murmured Thranduil. Thorin had crossed his own lines, gone against all of his own values, and that was perhaps more damaging than the wounds he bore on his skin. The wounds he could not have recovered from anyway, but Thranduil had recognised the look of someone who saw the end, and was not overly concerned with its approach. He did not blame Thorin Oakenshield for it. There was no shame in his end, for the world was as much to blame as Thorin’s own mistakes for these turn of events. It had happened before, many times. It would happen again. There was little he could do beyond what he already did.

Something in the air around them changed ever so subtly, and Thranduil let a breath escape his lips. “He’s dead,” he said in soft tones. Bard cocked his head to one side.

“How can you know?” he asked. The hint of a wry smile flickered across Thranduil’s face.

“Oh, death and I are old acquaintances,” he replied. That was a lie, of sorts, but it sounded good. He and death had crossed paths many times. After all, he had been there at the Last Alliance, and that was perhaps the greatest loss of life since the War of Wrath at the end of the First Age. And it was true that he, as an elf, was attuned to the world under his feet. He could tell when Legolas was gravely hurt or in danger, because he was his son. But he could not tell when another elf died, let alone a Dwarf.

He had not known because of magic, or whatever else Bard may now think. He could merely read a crowd well, could catch the subtle clues in the Dwarves guarding the tent. They could undoubtedly hear what was happening inside, and the small changes in their faces had given them away. But he kept his reputation carefully, even with those he considered allies.

The next moment Gandalf stepped out of the tent. “The King Under the Mountain is dead!” he called out in a great voice. Dain stepped forwards from behind Gandalf, coming out of the tent, and Gandalf bowed to him. “Long live The King!”

The Dwarves took up the cry, and Thranduil sighed. “And thus the line of Durin comes to an end,” he murmured, barely audible amongst the cries of the Dwarves. “Which one shall be next?”

0-o-0-o-0

There was a huff, and then the soft whine of an animal. A cold nose pushed its way under the blankets, and then something pawed at the edge of one, pulling the blankets away a little. Bilbo raised his head to see Umor snuffling at him in what looked like concern.

His rational mind said that the dog had probably been trained to check whether an unmoving shape was a threat, or alive, but still he couldn’t help the tight feeling in his chest at the thought that, amongst all of this, Umor had come to him to see if he was alright. Bilbo’s mouth twisted in another ugly sob and he ruffled Umor’s head, thick wiry fur underneath his fingers.

Umor nudged him again and Bilbo, suddenly finding himself unable to sit still any longer, got to his feet with a wince at cramped and sore muscles. With a whine, Umor licked his hand and then turned away. He was limping as he walked across the camp away from Bilbo, a gash on his leg, but Bilbo didn’t pay it much attention. He pulled the blanket more securely around his shoulders and walked off, a little unsteady on his feet.

He found himself without knowing on the edge of the camp, slowly walking around the perimeter to where the sun was setting in the west. Bilbo was so wrapped up in his own thoughts, memories of Thorin and the sinking realisation of his death that seemed to be grabbing onto his feet and pulling him down, that he didn’t realise until it was nearly too late that he wasn’t the only one there.

The Elvenking stood just beyond the edge of the camp, watching the sunset. Bilbo hadn’t seen him since the beginning of the battle, and for a moment he stopped and watched him. His long silver overcoat was wrapping around his legs in the breeze, and Bilbo was struck by how still he looked. Whenever he had seen the Elvenking he had been quiet, but a suppressed menace and cold steel until it had been unfurled in battle and he had been destruction itself. Now it was as if he was carved from stone. It was an image from a tale long in the past: the lone figure silhouetted against the sunset, and Bilbo was struck by the deep ache that the image brought.

Gandalf suddenly appeared, walking from the opposite direction towards the Elvenking. He stopped beside him. They both watched the setting of the sun, and Bilbo crept a little closer, fingering the ring in his pocket and wondering whether he should use it to hear what they were saying.

It turned out that he didn’t need to, for when Thranduil spoke it was loud enough for him to hear from his position on the edge of the camp, remaining in the shadows of a tent.

“Shadows and blood,” he said, remaining in Westron to perhaps prevent any of his people from listening in too closely. “That is all we have wrought, Mithrandir, all we are capable of.” He paused, eyes not straying from the horizon. “I know what is coming for us. I know what you will ask of me in those years. Know now, Mithrandir, that I cannot. I am not capable of anything more.”

“Thranduil,” Gandalf said, seemingly chastising him. “To say that without knowing what is ahead is to fence yourself in before the wolves come down from the hills and not even daring to contest their passage, so to speak. We have done a great thing here.”

“Have we?” Thranduil asked bitterly. “You have already told me this, and yet the more I look, the more I cannot see it. I will fight for every inch of the space we have won, but I cannot help but wonder if it would be better for nothing to be changed. For the space may do nothing but make us complacent, and will make us pay for it bitterly in the end.”

“This is not you, Thranduil!” exclaimed Gandalf in a rough voice. “This is not the King that I know, the King that has kept his people safe for so long.”

Thranduil laughed, and it sounded hollow and broken. “Have I?” he asked. “When so many of my people are now dead?” He shook his head. “I said to myself that I would never go to war over misplaced vengeance once more, not unless my hand was forced, and yet I walked into this one and ended up with no choice in the matter at all.”

Gandalf harrumphed, and levelled a glare at Thranduil. “This is not you,” he repeated fiercely. “You know the good we have done here.” Thranduil looked at him, and his glare deepened. “You have to see the bigger scheme, Thranduil. There have been forces at work here far larger than you or even me.”

Thranduil snorted. “Do not speak to me of fate!” he exclaimed, the words sharp on his tongue. “Fate is what gave us this path all those centuries ago. I owe it nothing. I owe them nothing.” He heaved a bitter sigh. “I have seen too much, Mithrandir,” he said. “Far too much.”

“You have not seen enough!” Gandalf exclaimed. “You have not seen beyond your realm for far too long. You have to look at the larger picture, Thranduil. What has been done here will shape the future to our advantage. There is more hope now, here, than there was before.”

Thranduil scoffed. “I find it hard to care for your larger picture, Mithrandir,” he said scornfully. “Not after all of this. We only won this because of luck and good timing, and you know it. You just won’t admit it, in order to preserve your precious schemes.” His voice rose, louder and sharper as grief struck a spark on his tongue and flamed into anger.

“How many of my people lie dead because of this?” he asked Gandalf viciously. Bilbo flinched at the shout, pressing back into the shadow of the tent as Thranduil, eyes aflame and looking more terrifying than ever in his grief, turned on the wizard. “How many are going to be crippled? How many have lost their husbands and wives, their siblings, their children?” His voice broke on the last word, the anger choking him before he regained his control with an icy grip.

“How many have you left scarred, Mithrandir?” he spat at Gandalf, words filled with such venom that Bilbo flinched back as if they could strike him. “You are blind in your self-imposed ignorance, blind to the wounds that you leave behind on every single person you touch.” He pointed out towards Erebor, the mountain now folded in shadow by the setting sun. “Where in all of your grand schemes, did you account for all of this?”

Gandalf was taken aback, and was surprisingly silent for a few moments. When he did speak, his voice was quiet and Bilbo had to strain to hear the words.

“Old friend,” he said, hand finding Thranduil’s shoulder. “I cannot believe you would let the world break you this much.”

Thranduil turned away. “I did not have a choice in this,” he replied, watching the horizon before them. “I have never had a choice. It was always inevitable, from the moment I put on that bloody crown on the battlefields of the Morannon.” His shoulders heaved. “I have been broken for a long time.”

“You cannot truly think that,” Gandalf said, and his voice, if anything, sounded worried. Thranduil straightened, looking back out towards the sunset. Bilbo wondered what he was looking for.

“You walk away,” Thranduil said quietly. The words were no longer spat, but there was a heavy grief to them that Bilbo felt aching in his own chest, as if he could somehow see what Thranduil was remembering.

“You get to walk away, Mithrandir,” he said, voice weary. “And that right there is the difference between us, why we are at odds each time we meet. You are drawn to these flames, help to put out the fires and then move on once again, with little thought to those left behind amongst the ashes. You walk away once the battle is done, and I am the one left with the aftermath.”

Gandalf’s next words were too quiet for Bilbo to hear, but Thranduil nodded and ran one hand over his face. Gone was the terrifying image of the Elvenking, but that did not diminish the grief that had settled over them, raw and deep and too profound for Bilbo to understand, and the two silhouettes standing against the sunset looked once again as if they had stepped out of the stories Bilbo had always been too young to hear.

0-o-0-o-0

 

Legolas crouched down beside the stream, trailing one hand in it. It was ice cold, running from the northern hills, and for a moment his gaze narrowed to just the rush of the water past his fingers.

In the next moment someone crouched down next to him and filled up a waterskin, and he blinked, jolting back to the present. He dipped his hand in and splashed water across his face with a slight wince. They were resting for a few minutes before they started to move once again, hunting down a large band of orcs that had fled Erebor and were heading west.

Someone clasped his shoulder, and Legolas turned and stood, turning his head away as the setting sun shone right across his eyes. “What is it?” he asked.

Belhadron held out a square of lembas. “Eat,” he said, waving it in Legolas’ face. “How’s your face?”

Legolas touched the bruises and deep scratches down one side of his face, a result from his fall down from Ravenhill. “Nothing I can do about it,” he replied. “It is irritating, but it’ll heal. How much longer can we have?”

Belhadron shrugged. “We’ve got a minute or two before the scouts come back in.” He looked like the rest of the sixty elves around them: dusty and bruised, armour dulled and in some places dented. Everyone had somehow conveniently lost their helms, which were hated by all of them.

Legolas broke off a piece of the lembas. “What supplies do we have left?” he asked. They hadn’t set out with much at all, only taking enough to live on for a few days. They were not a long-range scouting party like some of the others that he knew had been ordered out. The elves around him, the elite of the warriors that had all volunteered for this, were moving fast and taking out as many orcs as quickly as they could.

“We’re down to just lembas,” Belhadron replied. “Maybe a day’s supply if we stretch it. Obviously less if we end up in a difficult fight and need it.”

Legolas gritted his teeth. “So if we continue on and confront the band of orcs we’re tracking, we might have some difficulty getting back to Erebor.” Belhadron nodded with a slight grimace, and he sighed. “What do you want to do?”

Belhadron let out a short bark of laughter. “You know what I want to do,” he said with a fey grin. “Hunt them down and slaughter them. But I’ll follow you whatever you decide, you know that.”

“I know,” murmured Legolas. He ran a hand through his hair, the braids coming loose and flecked with mud and blood, and looked around at the elves surrounding them once more. “Listen up!” he called out.

The elves all turned to face him, looking expectant. Legolas tried not to sigh again. Nearly two days of no sleep, a massive battle and some smaller skirmishes when they caught up with straggling orcs, and it was beginning to show on all of them. Even elves had a limit to their endurance, and they had run twenty leagues in a day, with still further to go.

“You are probably all aware of our situation,” he said loudly. “We have two options here: we can turn back now, or we can push on, and spend the last day getting back to Erebor with little to no supplies at all. You all know the group we are tracking are large, and outnumber us.”

He glanced at Belhadron, who nodded slowly. “Anyone who wants to turn back now, they may,” Legolas said. “I’m not going to hold anyone here under orders, except probably him.” He jerked his head at Belhadron, and a ripple of laughter spread amongst the elves. Legolas smiled.

“I will continue on with anyone who is willing,” he continued. “Anyone who wishes to turn back-” Legolas cut himself off, looking at the elves surrounding them. He sighed with a wry grin.

“I’m wasting my time, aren’t I?”

Belhadron grinned as the elves laughed, and the ones still sitting got to their feet. “Undoubtedly,” said one of Legolas’ archers. “We’re going wherever you’re going.” She picked up her quiver and slung it over one shoulder as she walked past him.

“We’ve had worse,” said another, as the elves began to mobilise once more. “We’ll survive easily enough. Are the scouts back yet?”

“Nearly,” Belhadron said. He grinned as Legolas watched the elves pick up their weapons and get ready once again. “Did you really think anything else was going to happen?”

“I suppose not,” Legolas replied. He shouldered his quiver, adjusting the straps, and then nodded. “Let’s get moving again.”

He and Belhadron moved west to the head of the company once again to meet Rhavaniel’s spies who were coming back in. Most of the elves were checking weapons, stowing the few supplies they had with them, but as they moved past them Belhadron stopped, tapping one elf on the shoulder. He was faced the other way, back towards Erebor, and Belhadron recognised the look of someone not entirely in the present.

“Eyes forwards,” he said gruffly, stopping in front of the elf. “We don’t have time to lose focus.” None of them did, none of them were thinking of what they had left behind at that mountain. It wouldn’t do them any good.

“Yes, captain,” the elf said, ducking his head. “Sorry, captain.”

Belhadron sighed slightly. “Just…keep your head straight,” he said. “We still have a fight ahead of us.” The elf nodded once again, and Belhadron waved him away. “Go on, get moving.”

He turned to Legolas as the elf ran forwards, glancing over his shoulder as he did so. “Remind me why we brought him?” he asked Legolas, his voice low. “He’s too young.”

Legolas raised one eyebrow. “Maybe because he’s the best tracker we have at the moment?” he asked. “He’s better than you.” Belhadron snorted, and Legolas merely smiled wryly and moved off, armour glinting in the morning sunrise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Thranduil says 'I owe them nothing', the 'them' is referring to the Valar. I don't know what Thranduil's opinions of the Valar are, but after everything he's seen, I don't know how much he would trust in them. Whether that is right or not is another conversation, but a potentially very interesting one. Also, when he's talking about putting on the bloody crown on the Morannon, that is referring to the point where he became King of Greenwood, in the middle of the fight against Sauron in the Last Alliance. After that seven year long war, Thranduil led home a third of the number that had left their home. So yeah, that's going to leave scars.


	21. Distant View of Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, I suppose, for light injury and a slightly upsetting bit in the beginning.

Bilbo wandered through the camp aimlessly. He had spent the best part of the day with the Dwarves and Gandalf, grieving for Thorin and Fili and Kili, but truthfully, he had felt a little out of place in their tents. He had not known those dead for decades, had not grown up with them or watched them grow from children, and though there was a deep friendship between him and all of them, he felt as someone sitting on the outside, looking in at a grief he could not understand.

He was not a Dwarf, after all. Hobbits grieved with companionship, with great feasts and loud tales of remembrance. Dwarves appeared to grieve in silence, or with close friends and kin. And the elves… Well, the elves grieved with song.

Bilbo could hear it now as he trudged through the camp. The pyres for the men and Dwarves were burning brightly some ways away, but the elves had completely refused to burn their dead, and instead were digging shallow graves. And as they dug they sang, songs that left Bilbo with a deep ache in the pit of his stomach and fresh tears on his cheeks. The elves wove their haunting melodies that hung around the camp, a balm to the raw edges, and it was sad and beautiful at the same time.

Further off, in the valley before the gates of Erebor, large, darker fires burnt. The Dwarves, mostly, had been hard at work to burn the corpses of the orcs, clearing a path to Erebor itself. The banners that had been strewn across the valley were picked up and burnt, if they belonged to the orcs, or returned to the right people if they did not.

Bilbo found himself spinning his ring around the tip of his finger, and forced himself to take his hand out of his pocket. Disappearing would not help him now, and he had noticed an elf or two give him a wary glance as he passed, as if they could tell what was in his pocket.

He wandered through the camp until he came to the outside of one of the large tents, filled with the wounded. Someone was knelt outside, and as Bilbo approached he saw it was Bard. He was washing his hands, and the water that dripped from them was stained pink.

"Bard!" Bilbo exclaimed, hurrying closer. "I thought you were unharmed?"

Bard raised his head, and jumped slightly upon seeing Bilbo. "I am," he said, grabbing a cloth and drying his hands off. "The brother of one of my captains just died. He started coughing up blood, and then it was all we could do to stop him convulsing and falling off the-" He cut himself off. "I'm sorry," he said. "You don't want to hear this."

"How is your captain?" Bilbo asked. Now he was looking, he could see the darker stains down one of Bard's sleeves, and the spattering across his chest. Bard himself hadn't seemed to notice.

Bard let out a heavy breath. "Grieving," he replied simply. "I'll see to him once he is ready or once his grief becomes something I need to deal with, whichever comes first. Is there anything you needed?"

Bilbo shook his head. "No, I'm sorry to disturb you," he said. "I'll just-"

"You're not disturbing anyone," Bard said with an attempt at a smile. "You are respected and honoured by everyone here, Master Baggins. Anything you need, you only have to ask."

Bilbo ducked his head. "I just would like to go home," he said. "But I don't think that's something you can provide. Nor can you bring people back to life, or heal their wounds."

Bard's expression softened. "I am sorry," he said. "For Thorin and Fili and Kili, and all the others who have died. I am truly sorry. I never wanted anyone to die. But," he said, sitting down on his heels. "If it helps, they died fighting for what they believed in, not for that gold or that mountain or anything so trivial."

Bilbo paused. "Do you really believe that?" he asked.

"I have to," Bard replied steadily. "Or else nothing makes sense." He huffed a bitter laugh, running one hand through his hair. "There's so much to do," he said. "And I don't know if I can be responsible for so much. And yet, at the same time, how can I trust anyone else to do it? But it would be so easy to hide from it, to pass all of the responsibilities over."

"My dear Bard, I wouldn't know," Bilbo replied. "I've never had such responsibility, and I'm afraid I wouldn't know the slightest thing about what to do now. I just have my home to get back to, my books and armchair and garden." He paused. "Though I don't know how I can return to such a life after all of this."

Bard barked a laugh. "Don't we all," he muttered. He looked up at Bilbo. "I never asked," he said. "How are you? You are not hurt?"

"Other than a nasty lump on the back of my head, I am unharmed," Bilbo replied, feeling the lump still at the base of his skull, where he had been knocked out by something. "This nice mithril shirt kept me from being damaged further. I'm merely tired now, and waiting."

"Everyone is," Bard murmured. "But it should only be a few more days until we return to the lake. I'm going to speak to Dain later today, about rebuilding Laketown and other things, and maybe he will listen to me and help." He didn't say it, but Bilbo could guess what he was thinking, about Thorin and the Dwarves and the past few weeks.

"My dear Bard," he said. "You and your people lost a lot, and I daresay some blame does indeed lie with the Dwarves for that. But you came to Thorin dressed for war! There were fourteen of us, and three thousand of you. What else was Thorin to do but fence himself in and defend from what he saw as an attack?"

Bard grimaced. "I'll admit that I didn't handle that too well," he muttered.

"Oh, I don't blame you," Bilbo said hastily. "Not really. From what I've gathered you'd only just become the leader of the men of Laketown, and I cannot fault you for stumbling when I know what it is like to be thrust into something with no idea what you are doing. In hindsight it is easy to spot our mistakes," he added, rocking back on his heels with his hands in his pockets. "But it's over now, at least. I doubt very much that things would have been different, had you acted differently." He shuddered. "Those orcs still would have arrived. Whether or not you were on good terms with Thorin could not have changed much."

Bard smiled wearily. "Thank you, I suppose," he replied. "But I was in the wrong, then, I think. Perhaps if I had been more friendly then things might be a little better now."

"Oh, I think your latest actions speak for themselves," Bilbo said. "At least, from what I can see. You allied with the Dwarves in the end, and you fought together. You're still together now, even if the elves seem to dislike the whole situation a bit." He sighed slightly. "They live for a long time, I'm told, and so I imagine it's quite hard for them to let go of an old grudge."

Bard, to his surprise, laughed under his breath. "You have no idea," he murmured. He sat back on his heels, running the cloth in his hands through his fingers. "Still, it's a lot that's changed. A lot more that is going to change. And a lot of responsibility to shoulder." His voice trailed off, seemingly talking to himself rather than the hobbit next to him.

"The camp seems so empty," Bilbo commented, looking around and trying to change the subject. "It's a little strange, after seeing it so full only a day or so ago."

Bard nodded. "Most of the elves are out scouting, and hunting down the orcs," he said. "I know Legolas took a company of sixty out, hunting down a large band of orcs that fled the fight. Most of the elves are doing the same, though I know Legolas' company was ordered to do as much as they could without breaking themselves and then return in a few days, so they'll be back soon." In what state, he wasn't sure, but he didn't put it past the elves, especially Legolas and the elite with him, to spend the entire time on the move and completely exhaust themselves in order to hunt down as many orcs as possible. It seemed like something they would do.

"I suppose the Elvenking would want Legolas back sooner rather than later," Bilbo muttered to himself, not seeing Bard's curious look. "I do feel rather useless at the moment, though. Is there anything you need help with, Bard?"

Bard shook his head, and made to say something but was interrupted by the rustling of the tent door in front of them. An elf, one of the healers by the looks of them, stuck his head out. "Lord Bard?"

Bard pushed to his feet. "Yes?" he replied.

"Can you please get your captain?" he asked. "We do need the space, and in all honesty he might start lashing out soon. I'd rather he didn't do that in my tent."

Bard nodded, and started forwards. "Of course," he said. "Excuse me, Master Baggins."

"Not at all," Bilbo replied. "You have more important things to do than keep me company." Bard nodded distractedly in reply, and then disappeared into the tent. Bilbo, taking a seat outside, could hear Bard's voice, at first soft and then steadily growing sterner as the captain apparently resisted.

After a few minutes there was some sort of banging and muffled commotion, and then Bard reappeared. A man stumbled out of the tent, Bard behind him. The man made a garbled sound of protest and spun on one heel, only to run into Bard.

"Let go!" he cried, fighting at Bard's grip as Bard dragged him away. "Get off! I need to- I have to…" His words were slurring together, and Bilbo watched with an ache in his chest as Bard stood in his way and pushed him back.

"Haldon," he snapped sternly. "Captain!"

Haldon came to a ragged halt and stood there, chest heaving. "I need- my brother…" Those were the words that seemingly broke him, for he doubled over with a choked sob. Bard reached out and Haldon grabbed blindly onto his arm, hauling himself upright even though his body trembled beneath him.

"I know," Bard said, his voice softening. "But not here. Come on." He pushed gently at Haldon and began to walk him away. Haldon made one last aborted effort to return to the tent and Bard grabbed him, slinging one arm around his waist and pulling him back. "Haldon," he said firmly, though Bilbo thought he could hear the grief colouring his voice. "He's dead. There's nothing you can do. He's dead."

Bilbo watched as Haldon sagged back against Bard upon hearing the words, the breath knocked out of him. Bard grimaced, and then pulled the man up and steadied him as he walked him away, out of the camp towards the grey expanse of rock on all sides. A minute later, maybe less, and Bilbo was sure the cry he heard was Haldon in the midst of his grief.

Bilbo sat on the floor for a while, using a discarded cloth to wipe down Sting. People moved around him, and though he got a few more glances, more people recognising him, still he became unnoticeable fairly quickly. It suited him, at the moment.

Of course, it only lasted for so long. A shadow fell across him and then he looked up to see Gandalf. "Bilbo," he said softly. "The Dwarves have been missing you. Do not tell me you have been here for most of the afternoon!"

Bilbo shrugged. "Not for too long," he replied. "I was talking to Bard, but he had to deal with one of his men when the man's brother died." He got to his feet, wincing at the pull on sore muscles. "I feel rather useless at the moment, to tell the truth. What are we waiting for?"

Gandalf let out a huff as he and Bilbo began to walk back to the Dwarven camp. "Some of the elves to return, I suppose," he replied. "Thranduil will not go anywhere until Legolas has returned, that I know. And then we must hold the funerals for Thorin and Fili and Kili."

Bilbo bowed his head, his jaw clenching. "So Legolas is the Elvenking's son," he said, desperately trying to change topic. "He does not appear as a Prince, does he?"

"He does not like to," Gandalf replied. He'd noticed Bilbo avoiding the sore subject of Thorin, but said nothing. The hobbit could deal with his grief in his own way. "He has never loved his status much, which is why he never says anything or insists on his proper title. He cannot avoid being called Lord, for the most part, but all of his archers and many more besides know better than to call him Prince." Bilbo frowned, confused, and Gandalf elaborated. "Remember that elves are immortal unless slain," he continued. "Legolas is very unlikely to ever become King, and he does not want to. He much prefers to be a captain and nothing more."

"He's kind," Bilbo commented softly. "Completely unlike any of the elves in Rivendell that I met."

Gandalf barked a short laugh, a strange sound in the midst of the camp. "He is a lot younger than most of the elves in Rivendell," he replied. "But yes, he is kind, kinder than he perhaps should be given the state of his home and his prowess as a warrior." From the tone of his voice, Bilbo couldn't tell if that was a good thing or not.

Gandalf sighed, his mind flitting through the many times he had been to the Woodland Realm. It was easy enough for the elves to become cynical and mean in a world full of shadow, especially when the world insisted on throwing that shadow at them relentlessly. To be kind, for Legolas to remain who he was and not waver, was much more difficult. Perhaps it would end badly, as the cynicism was a protection as much as anything else. But perhaps it would be his saving grace, in the end.

Beside him Bilbo also seemed to be wandering through his own thoughts, and Gandalf broke from his to look down at the hobbit. He hoped that Bilbo would find the same strength, especially given what he suspected he carried in his pocket.

"Thranduil has a lot of respect for you, my dear Bilbo," Gandalf said, searching for a new subject. "You will undoubtedly be welcome in his halls, whenever you wish. The same will go for Rivendell, that I can be sure of."

"Really?" asked Bilbo, curiosity kindling in him at the thought. But it soon was banked once again, and he shook his head. "At the moment, I would just like to go home," he said. "And I am not overly fond of revisiting those woods." He shuddered. "Unless they somehow get rid of all the spiders."

Gandalf laughed softly, shaking his head to himself. "Unlikely," he replied. "They're very difficult things to remove. But there are parts of their realm untouched, for the most part, by darkness. Go far enough into the midst of the realm, the woods north of the stronghold where the strength of the elves is greatest, and it is like Greenwood exists once more."

"Greenwood?" Bilbo asked.

"I forget you don't actually know much beyond your Shire, sometimes," Gandalf said gruffly. "Greenwood is the name that Mirkwood once bore. Greenwood the Great, before it fell under darkness and the wood elves were pushed back to the north."

"Will you tell me more?" Bilbo asked. Legolas had told him, as had the other captains, many stories that night around the fire, but Bilbo only realised now that he'd talked mainly of his history and that of the elves, the First Age and the realms that had existed then. Tales of their own realm, other than small idle talk, had been few and far between.

Gandalf glanced down at him, raising one eyebrow, and Bilbo held his gaze. "I want to know more," he said.

"More of what?" asked Gandalf.

The Tookish part of Bilbo, the one that had made him run out of his door without a handkerchief what seemed like a lifetime ago, had been dampened recently by worry and grief, and images of blood and steel and the sound of dying that had stolen into his mind and settled. But now it woke once more, raising its head and pushing back the images into dreams and not the waking day. Curiosity sparked once more and began to burn in their place.

Gandalf nudged Bilbo, and he realised he hadn't said anything in reply. "More of what?" Gandalf asked again, and Bilbo thought he could hear some kind of relief in his voice.

"Everything," Bilbo replied. "As much as I can know."

0-o-0-o-0

Belhadron held up one hand, blocking the glare of the sun as it began to sink in the west. Below him he could see across much of the plains surrounding Erebor, the endless grey stone and frozen soil that continued on for what seemed like countless leagues. Even his eyesight was not good enough to make out much more than the dark green smear across the horizon that was home.

His gaze didn't linger there for more than a moment, though, and he shifted again, remaining as hidden as he could whilst trying to watch the party of orcs that they'd been chasing for the past two days. One of Rhavaniel's scouts was to one side of him.

"Are they…" Belhadron winced as his hand shifted and sunlight glared across his eyes, and then nodded as he confirmed what they had been watching for. "They're stopping. Thank you Varda."

"I don't think she has much to do with this," the scout murmured with a wry grin. "I would rather thank that stream that crossed their path. They've been moving non-stop for almost two days now. They'll have to take at least a few minutes now." She glanced behind her. They were lying on the edge of a slight rise, the stream less than a league below them. Behind them the rest of the sixty elves were taking a few minutes to rest and check their weapons before moving in.

They watched for a few more moments, until the orcs began to cast themselves down on the ground and they were sure they had stopped for the time being, and then skidded back down the slope to the others. Legolas met them at the bottom, quiver slung over one shoulder from where he had been checking the arrows he'd part scavenged from the battlefield and part picked up from the camp after the battle.

"Have we got an opening?" he asked. Belhadron nodded.

"It looks like they're settling down by the stream," he replied. "We've been on their tail for two days without stopping, and they were going to have to stop sooner or later."

"We've got an advantage in that the stream's created a natural hollow, of sorts," said the scout. "We can get closer than I was expecting, given all this accursed bare land around us." She looked back over her shoulder. "Do you want us scouting ahead?"

"Yes, but not too far," Legolas replied, and he turned to get the rest of Rhavaniel's scouts that he had with him. In soft voices they began to put together a plan. After only a few minutes Legolas nodded, satisfied, and the small group split apart, the scouts spreading the plan amongst the rest of the elves.

"You ready?" Legolas asked Belhadron softly. Belhadron grinned wryly.

"Do you even have to ask?" Legolas huffed a brief laugh, but it was short lived and soon his gaze went west once more. "Last battle," Belhadron said, watching him. "We're nearly done."

"Nearly done isn't the same as done," Legolas replied. He swung his quiver up and slipped his other arm through the strap. Without saying anything Belhadron stepped forwards and did up the buckle across Legolas' chest, tugging on the leather to make the quiver sit properly. "You know better than to think like that."

Belhadron smiled crookedly. "It's been a long few days," was all that he said as he checked his own quiver and adjusted his sword belt once again. Exhaustion had not yet reached them, and would not do so for another day at the least, but tiredness was beginning to creep in at the edges of their minds. They hadn't stopped moving for more than an hour since they'd left Erebor.

Legolas called for them to move out, and within a few minutes it was as if the elves have never been there. With their grey cloaks they were wraiths moving across bare rock, barely visible to even the birds high above.

They fell upon the orcs, blades in hands and the singing of elven bows in the air. The orcs, though tired, snatched up their swords and fought back viciously. It was not a case of whether they could flee once more, whether they would survive. It was now merely how many elves they could hurt before they themselves were cut down amongst the bare rocks, and they were all the more reckless because of it.

Legolas nearly skidded down the gentle slope as he led part of the company into the orcs, jumping over the stream and instantly ducking under a desperate blow. His long knife in his hand, the other lost somewhere outside Erebor, he brought his arm up and slashed at the orc, which crumpled in a heap at his feet.

Belhadron was somewhere to his left, at the head of the other half of the company. The elves quickly encircled the orcs, pushing them together and picking off one orc after another from the edges. Arrows flew through the air from elves stationed back and above from the melee, and orcs dropped dead before they even knew there were arrows aimed at them.

Legolas parried another blow and twisted his wrist, his knife sliding along the orc's blade. The orc brought his other hand round in a wide blow, fist clenched. Legolas twisted his body and the hand scraped past his armour. In the next moment, he pulled his knife back and brought it down, the sharp steel biting into the flesh of the orc's arm.

The orc howled in pain and rage and tried to spin away, pawing at Legolas in an attempt to grab him. Legolas darted back, pulling his knife away, and the orc only managed to land a glancing blow that the armour protected him from. Legolas ducked another swipe and then slashed out with his knife. The orc fell, a puppet cut from its strings.

The skirmish wore on and the number of orcs quickly fell, more and more falling to the bright blades and anger of the elves. Legolas saw Belhadron, sword in hand on the other side of the orcs, but then lost him again in the ebb and flow of the fighting. There were not enough elves for Belhadron to have his usual place at Legolas' side unless they were to risk endangering others, something neither of them would ever do. A few of his archers fought beside Legolas for a while, before they were pulled off in other directions and two of Rhavaniel's scouts ended up nearby.

The sky was just beginning to turn dark, orange fingers reaching out from the dying sun, when the final orc fell with an arrow in its throat. Legolas lowered his knife, nodding his thanks to the archer above who had loosed the arrow, before looking around and beginning to take in the damage done to his company.

It seemed minimal. There was a reason all of the elves with him were considered the elite, and though the orcs had outnumbered them they had centuries of skill, not to mention endurance, on their side. Some elves were picking themselves up off the ground, and it looked like a few were unconscious, but there was no panic over deep wounds or the weight that sunk through the air when someone died. Legolas allowed himself to breathe a slight sigh of relief.

A voice cut through the cooling dusk air.

"Legolas!"

Legolas spun on one heel to see one of his archers crouched over a prone body. Her face wasn't particularly panicked, but it wasn't without worry either. Legolas cursed under his breath and ran over, picking his way through the bodies of the orcs littered across the ground.

It wasn't until he got closer, only yards away, that he recognised the armour and sword that his archer had picked up, and the breath stuttered in his throat. He sprinted the last few yards to the two of them, half formed words behind lips pressed tightly shut.

"What happened?" he managed to get out as he fell to his knees beside Belhadron. He was slumped on the ground, eyes tightly shut and blood coating one side of his face. Legolas winced and reached out for him, hands only steady through sheer determination.

"I saw him fighting not five minutes ago," the archer said as Legolas patted Belhadron down for other injuries, moving him so he was no longer crumpled on the ground. He briefly glanced up at his archer. "He can't have been down for long at all," she continued. "And it looks like it's just the head injury."

Legolas gently tilted Belhadron's head towards him, wincing again as he saw the gash. He ducked his head for a moment, resting his hand on Belhadron's pale cheek, before beginning to look at the wound. It was still bleeding sluggishly, and his archer pressed a cloth into his hand to stem the flow.

Legolas cursed under his breath as he pressed the cloth to the gash. "Is anyone else hurt?" he asked, briefly looking up and around before his attention turned back to Belhadron.

"Not that I can see," the archer replied. "A few may have taken minor wounds or-" She suddenly broke off as Belhadron seemed to begin to wake. Frowning, he sluggishly turned his head to one side with a muffled groan. Legolas rubbed at his chest.

"Belhadron?" he said softly. "Mellon-nin?"

Belhadron frowned again, tried to raise his head, and then seemed to lose the battle and subsided back into unconsciousness, going limp once more. Legolas uttered another curse. "Get everyone together," he said to his archer. "Anyone who is wounded or who wishes to, return to where we stashed our supplies. Everyone else needs to pile the orcs so we can burn the corpses."

"Of course," his archer replied, getting smoothly to her feet. "Do you need anything here?"

"I think he'll come round in a few minutes," Legolas replied, making an effort to smooth out his voice and hide the worry that was bubbling up, gripping his throat. "There's nothing much more you could do to help. My thanks, though."

She nodded, and then moved off. Legolas shifted so Belhadron's head was pillowed on his legs where he knelt on the cold ground. One hand, the one not holding the cloth to the gash in Belhadron's head, went up to his own cheek. The deep scrapes had been opened up again during the fight, and fresh blood was now drying down his cheek and throat.

He began to undo the straps across Belhadron's chest, pulling his quiver and bow out from underneath him and setting it to one side. Stray arrows spilt out across the ground. Legolas ignored them, checking the gash across Belhadron's temple before adjusting his armour, loosening off the metal plates across his shoulders and throat. Belhadron suddenly tensed beneath his hands and Legolas gently rubbed his chest again.

"Belhadron," he said once more, his voice soft. "If you can hear me, stop slacking off and wake up."

Belhadron frowned, and his head tilted to one side as he groaned. Legolas kept talking, not paying much attention to what he was saying, and slowly Belhadron seemed to come back into his self. His hand twitched and then slowly tried to reach up for the gash across his temple. Legolas caught it and pushed it back, holding onto his hand loosely.

"You've taken a hit to the head," he said. Belhadron went to reach for the wound again and Legolas pushed his hand back once more. "Stop it," he chided. "Leave it alone. It's not that bad, probably won't even need stitches even though it's bled a fair amount."

Belhadron groaned again. "Wha…what?" he mumbled. Legolas smiled softly in relief.

"You've taken a hit to the head," he repeated. "Are you with me?"

Belhadron screwed up his face, and then his eyes flickered open. He managed to focus on Legolas. "I was so close," he rasped. "So close. I could have come through…this entire thing…without getting hurt."

"And then an orc had to go and knock you out," Legolas replied, the corner of his mouth curling in a wry smile. "I know. How are you feeling?"

Belhadron blinked slowly. "How do you think?" he muttered in reply. He huffed a breathless laugh. "Not too bad. Maybe." He suddenly jerked, and made an effort to sit up. "The…orcs," he muttered, before his face drained of all colour and he fell back down, breathing harshly through clenched teeth.

"Easy," Legolas murmured, resting a hand on Belhadron's chest. "We're done. Nobody else looks badly hurt. All of the orcs are dead as well. We can head back to Erebor now."

Belhadron nodded slightly. "How far?" he asked softly. Legolas shrugged, making sure he didn't jolt Belhadron where his head was pillowed on his legs still. For the next few minutes he talked softly to him about the skirmish, what they were going to do next, letting Belhadron readjust and come around properly. For the most part Belhadron merely listened, trying to ignore the pounding pain in his head and the blood drying down his face.

After a few minutes Belhadron shifted, pushing himself up with one arm. Legolas moved back and put an arm around his shoulders as Belhadron struggled into a sitting position. Even that movement made him wince and he waited for the spinning to stop.

"All of our supplies are back where we stashed them," Legolas said. "Can you get up?"

Belhadron nodded, with a muffled groan as his head complained at the movement. "Sure," he muttered, but he didn't move. Legolas got to his feet and held out a hand. With one swift tug he pulled Belhadron up to his feet. Belhadron staggered, head spinning, and Legolas propped him up and stopped him from falling back to the cold ground.

Belhadron swallowed heavily as he leant on Legolas. "I might throw up on you," he warned, the corners of his lips curling in a grin. Legolas huffed a laugh, wrapping an arm around Belhadron's waist and pulling him upright.

"It really wouldn't be the first time," he replied. Belhadron grinned weakly, forcing himself to stand up straighter. Legolas called over one of his archers, giving them orders until Belhadron wavered and nearly fell against Legolas, the world spinning hazily around him.

They staggered back to where they had stashed their supplies, Belhadron gradually getting more control over his own legs until Legolas took his arm back and he walked on his own. He had Belhadron's quiver and bow over his shoulder, and his sword was in his own belt with his one long knife. It felt strange to be carrying the sword once more, the blade that had been his a long time ago before he had handed it over.

They reached where they had stashed their supplies and the light was quickly failing. Some elves had made it back before them and a fire was already going. A few were sat down around the fire with others tending to wounds, and Legolas pulled Belhadron over, ignoring his token protests.

"Sit down," he said, pushing at Belhadron. Belhadron glared, but slumped inelegantly to the ground with a wince, his hand going to his head. Legolas caught his arm. "Stop it," he said once again, a wry smile coming across his face. "You'll make it worse."

Someone passed him a bag and a waterskin, and Legolas pulled out a piece of cloth. Wetting it, he began to clean up the blood coating Belhadron's face. Belhadron went to push his hand away and he rolled his eyes. "Please stop it," he said. "You have dried blood all across your cheek."

"We match," Belhadron rasped with a grin. He reached out for Legolas' own cheek, the scrapes from the battle. "You need to be more careful."

"Says the elf with a gash across his temple," Legolas replied with an easy smile. He tilted Belhadron's head with one hand on his chin and began to clean up the wound. Belhadron huffed in annoyance, but stayed still. His eyes flickered to the east, but with his head pounding and the recent events, it was easy enough not to think of what they would face once they returned.

More elves returned to the makeshift camp as night fell, the later ones smelling of burning flesh and smoke. By the time the full company had returned, it was dark. A few fires were burning brightly and the elves drew around them, tending to any more serious wounds, of which there were few, and regaining some of their strength.

Belhadron, face now fairly clean of blood, was sat in front of one of the fires with one of Legolas' archers periodically checking he hadn't fallen asleep. Some of the elves were indeed asleep, curled up on their cloaks with weapons within reach. There would be no more skirmishes for them, though, or an ambush at night. The plume of smoke from the pile of burning orcs would scare any fleeing bands away.

Legolas moved around the makeshift camp, checking in with each elf as he did so. Nobody was hurt worse than Belhadron, and though they were tired, the sheer determination and grit that had made them all fight their ways into the elite companies was still there.

To every elf, he gave the same option. They had completed their orders, in that they'd brought down as many orcs possible in their given time, and now Legolas knew they were finished. They didn't have enough supplies to go further, having only travelled light and given the bulk of supplies to those companies going on longer, but slower, hunts. They could take the night and begin to return in the morning to Erebor, set off in an hour or so and get back quicker, or continue on to the edge of the lake and the people there.

The vast majority agreed with what Legolas himself wanted to do. They did not wish to linger for any longer, and now that their orders were complete thoughts were turning to what they had left behind at Erebor, the dead and wounded that they didn't yet know of. All of them were very accustomed to pushing themselves as far as they could if they had to. They just wanted to get back.

Legolas crouched down beside the fire. Belhadron glanced up. "I'm fine," he muttered. "Before you even ask."

"He keeps asking to sleep," said the archer sitting next to him, his voice amused. "Are we heading off soon?"

"An hour, maybe less," Legolas replied. He moved to be in front of Belhadron, tilting his head to one side to look at the gash. Belhadron half-heartedly waved his hand away with a muttered complaint. "Belhadron," Legolas chided. "Stop it."

"The gash hasn't changed since you last looked at it," Belhadron said, a rasp still in his voice. "I haven't passed out again, or thrown up since you tripped and nearly dropped me on the way back."

Legolas winced at the words. "I'm sorry for that, again," he replied. "But you had me worried for a bit. Indulge me." He held Belhadron's gaze steadily, and it was only because Belhadron had known him for so long that he could read anything in the look.

Belhadron's face softened. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I can't remember how I was knocked out, but I'm pretty sure I didn't mean for it to happen." Legolas huffed a low laugh, ducking his head. His hand found Belhadron's face, and he rested it there for a moment, reassuring himself that his friend was indeed alive and mostly whole. Belhadron reached up and gently squeezed Legolas' arm.

"I'll be alright," he said, lips curling in a small smile. "I have a hard head."

Legolas laughed weakly. "Believe me, I know," he replied. He sat back. "We're heading out soon enough. We have enough food for another day or so, and then we'll be out, but it'll only be a day out from the camp anyway."

"We've gone with a lot worse," Belhadron said. "We all have. We'll be fine." He levelled a glare at Legolas, who grinned slightly in return, and Belhadron knew he'd made his point. He settled back to watch the small fire dance in front of him, chewing on a piece of lembas. Legolas shifted to sit to one side of him and for a few minutes, maybe more, it was quiet.

Eventually, though, they packed up and left, once again no trace that they were there apart from the cold ashes of their small fires, and the plume of smoke from the burning corpses of the orcs. It was dark, but that was no hindrance to an elf, and they ran unseen through the night, east towards Erebor.


	22. Reunion

The small flame flickered alarmingly in the gust of chill wind and then went out, leaving the thin piece of wood smoking and charred at one end. Gandalf grumbled and tried to light the wood in the brazier at the edge of camp once more.

After a few more tries, he huffed in annoyance and dropped the splint into the brazier, where it quickly caught fire and curled up. He cupped one hand around the bowl of his pipe and with the other, snapped his fingers above it. There was a spark, and then the pipe-weed began to smoulder. Gandalf sucked in a deep breath, then blew out a smoke ring across the valley. He watched it dwindle in the dusk light.

It had been a long day.

It was now four days since they had fought under the shadow of Erebor, four days since Thorin had fallen, Fili and Kili and hundreds of others that Gandalf didn't know the names of. They'd spent the time burying the dead and tending to the wounded, and still great fires burnt out across the ground in front of Erebor where the orcs had been piled. Gandalf had spent most of his time in the various healing tents when he was not with Bilbo and Thorin's companions, watching over the men and elves and Dwarves as best as he could.

Today, however, had been more interesting, with Thranduil, Dain, Bard and Thorin's companions coming together to finally discuss what it was they had all come for in the first place, though intentions and actions had ended far from there. Bard had now been offered and accepted a portion of the treasure for Laketown. Bilbo had been offered the same, even if he had only accepted a few small chests in the end. The rest would remain in Erebor, to rebuild the kingdom. Gandalf was sure, though, that none of Thorin's companions would want for anything anymore.

He had been surprised, a little, when Thranduil had asked for nothing and only backed up Bard's claim. Gandalf knew probably better than most the weakness the Elvenking could have for gold and gems, knew his history and the reasons behind it all, and he had expected some inclination that Thranduil desired some of what lay in the mountain. But there had been nothing, or if there had, Gandalf could no longer read Thranduil as well as he used to be able to. But that was very unlikely.

Gandalf sighed, blowing another smoke ring towards the mountain. He supposed that he should have seen it coming. Thranduil had been growing more impatient as the days from the battle wore on, even if nobody but Gandalf could see it. Gandalf doubted that he had much patience for long talks at the moment. Not since the last news the Eagles had brought back was of a company led by a blond elf finally nearing their quarry, a large band of orcs that they had been hunting down.

With that thought Gandalf sighed, and began to walk back into camp with the intention of checking on everyone under his charge. This included all of Thorin's companions and Bilbo, of course, and Bard. Not because Gandalf felt particularly indebted to the man or even liked him much, but because there was a lot of responsibility on him and his inexperience could very well make him do something stupid. And of course, he would check in on Thranduil, though Thranduil would not know his actual intentions.

The Dwarves were grieving still. There was not much Gandalf could do about that beyond meagre words of comfort and hope. They would all mourn for a while, grieve for even longer. Bilbo was also grieving, but perhaps he had begun to come to terms with it a little more. The hobbit was perpetually full of surprises, even to Gandalf.

Bard and Thranduil were together in the Elvenking's tent, speaking in low tones of what was to come in the next few months and beyond. Thranduil looked up as Gandalf stepped in. "You do not know how to knock," he stated with a raised eyebrow and a face that would probably have lesser people thinking of retreat. "Though I suppose the act has served you well in the past."

Gandalf huffed, and took a goblet from the side. "Do not try and deflect onto me, Thranduil," he warned with a wry smile. "Wine?"

Thranduil shook his head. "Not now," he replied. Gandalf noticed the slight tick in his clenched jaw, the distracted gaze that kept drifting towards the tent flap as if expecting someone to run in. It had been four days now since the battle, and Legolas had been due back this morning.

"Thranduil," he said gruffly, slipping into Sindarin for now. "He is a few hours late. You cannot be worrying about that. He's been late many times before."

Thranduil looked up, and then averted his gaze towards the tent entrance once more. "Not like this," he muttered. "Never anything like this. I have been a King all day, all of this time. Let me worry for one night."

"You never stop worrying," Gandalf retorted. "You've just become very accustomed to hiding it. Do you doubt your son's skill, Thranduil? His heart?"

Thranduil drew himself up with an icy glare. "Do I even have to answer that?" he asked. Gandalf raised one eyebrow and held his gaze. Soon enough, Thranduil subsided. Satisfied, Gandalf turned to the man sitting opposite, looking rather confused at the brief exchange between the two of them.

"How are your men, Bard?" he asked.

Bard inclined his head. "Coping," he replied. "Coping well, considering they've never seen or done anything like this before. A lot of them are just putting their heads down and doing whatever jobs are needed. Whether that's a good idea or not, I don't know, but I don't think I could do much to stop them."

"You probably could not," Thranduil said. "And even if you did, you would then have a few hundred grieving and angry men doing nothing, and that leads quickly to discontent." He trailed off, listening to something beyond their hearing.

"Not at you," Gandalf continued, addressing Bard. "No discontent at you, merely at everything beyond their control and understanding." Gandalf gave Thranduil a subtle glare, before turning back to the man. "You're doing well enough, Bard," he said gruffly. "Your men respect you. They'll follow you long after this is over."

Bard ducked his head, and breathed out a long sigh. "That is what I'm afraid of," he murmured, seemingly to himself. Gandalf opened his mouth to ask more, but before he could there came the sound of running feet and then a frantic knock on the outside post of the tent. Thranduil barked out an order and an elf pushed his way in, bowing quickly.

"My Lord," he said. "They've returned."

Without another word Thranduil jumped to his feet. Bard actually flinched at the expression on his face and it was at this moment, not any other, that he saw the Elvenking look truly fey, and he was taken aback by the raw and ancient power he didn't bother, in this moment, to hide. Thranduil pushed out of the tent, the elf only just scrambling out of his way in time. Gandalf sighed heavily, putting his goblet to one side. "Have the healers been sent for?" he asked the elf.

"They're standing by," the elf replied. "We'll have supplies set outside here as well."

"Any indication of how they are?" Gandalf asked as he headed outside and towards the gathering crowd of mostly elves. Bard followed, looking confused.

"Exhausted," the elf replied. "But walking still." He ducked his head to Gandalf and then melted into the crowds, soon disappearing. Gandalf hurried to catch up with Thranduil, who was striding ahead of them, and Bard broke into a jog to come to Gandalf's side.

"What is it?" he asked. "What has happened?" Gandalf didn't miss how his hand rested on the hilt of his sword, that he still hadn't removed from his hip.

"Legolas' company," Gandalf replied, speeding up as they reached the edge of the camp. "They've returned. According to that elf it doesn't look like anyone's badly injured, but they'll be exhausted to the point of collapse, if I know Legolas. Which I do." He briefly grasped Bard's arm. "Do not get in Thranduil's way," he warned.

Bard frowned and opened his mouth to say something, but was distracted by movement on the edge of the camp, silhouettes against the flickering light of the fires. And then the company moved into view.

They strode proudly into camp and silence fell, the crowd parting for the sixty elves. Legolas walked at the head of them, and like all of them was dusty and bloody and still terrifying, with fey eyes and bloodied blades. The flames glinted off their armour and wreathed them in light. The elves watched them silently; the men bowed their heads as they passed.

Thranduil stepped forwards from the edge of the crowd, face impassive. The sixty elves came to a stop in front of him and Bard watched in amazement as all of them bowed their heads, and then sank down to one knee in front of their King.

Thranduil briefly bowed his head, jaw clenched as he looked over the elves knelt in front of him, silent. In the next moment he spoke a few words in their own language, holding the gaze of the elves as the phrase rolled off his tongue. They nodded, and then rose smoothly to their feet. Murmurs broke out amongst those watching as they seemed to relax in sheer relief at returning. The moment, the image of ancient warriors and battles fought long ago, dwindled into the night sky like a blur of smoke.

The next few minutes were a blur of movement. Legolas stepped forwards and began to walk with Thranduil back through the camp. Belhadron was at his side as usual, and they walked steadily in front of the rest of the company. Elves, ones Bard recognised as healers, stepped forwards and began to pull away elves of the company, and Bard saw them sag in weariness as soon as they stepped away, a few stumbling and even falling to the ground. He looked back to Legolas and Belhadron, and realised that they were probably still walking through sheer determination alone.

Thranduil was walking just ahead of Legolas, Gandalf beside him, and he was completely silent, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Bilbo joined them from where he had been silently watching, and he trailed behind until Bard dropped back to accompany him. Gandalf repeatedly kept glancing back to Legolas and Belhadron, but the two of them seemed to be concentrating so much on staying on their feet that they didn't notice.

Legolas and Belhadron kept up their pretence until they reached the quieter part of the camp, and insistent healers had pulled all of the other elves away. Belhadron crumpled first, doubling over and stumbling forwards. Legolas turned towards him with a surprised cry, but his own legs buckled and he staggered, listing to one side.

Gandalf rushed forwards and grabbed Belhadron's arm, hauling him upwards and letting the weary elf lean heavily on him. Bard had started for Legolas, but before he had even taken a few steps Thranduil was there, a rare look of alarm on his face as he slipped an arm around Legolas' waist and propped him up, murmuring something too soft for Bard to hear.

Healers seemed to appear from nowhere and went straight to the two of them. Thranduil kept moving with Legolas towards his tent regardless of the healer trying to assess him, and Bard followed swiftly.

There was a sudden noise behind them, and then a muffled shout. Bard spun on one heel to see Belhadron struggling frantically against a healer who was trying to push him away in another direction. Belhadron spat out something incoherent, the words jumbled together as he desperately tried to get around the other elf, and then he couldn't seem to stop talking, shouting interspersed with what sounded to Bard like terrified pleading.

Gandalf, who had been pushed away when the healer had tried to move Belhadron, attempted to step forwards and calm him, but Belhadron shook him off as well. His chest was heaving now, mumbled words gasped between breaths. One side of his face was slick with blood from some wound, and his knees buckled underneath him, sending him staggering.

Thranduil was suddenly there, Legolas being held back, and held up, by Bard. The Elvenking waved the healer away with one hand and then stepped close to the panicking Belhadron. He grasped either side of his neck and tilted his face up, regardless of the blood now staining his hands.

"Belhadron," he said urgently, searching Belhadron's wide eyes for any sign he was with them. "Belhadron, you're safe. He's safe. It's all right, you're done. You've done everything I've asked of you. You can stand down now. You're both safe."

Belhadron stilled. His chest was still heaving, but his eyes flickered across Thranduil's face and to Legolas behind him. Slowly he nodded, but his breathing couldn't seem to slow down now. Dizzy, he toppled forwards.

Thranduil caught him, looking alarmed again as Belhadron slumped against him. He rested one hand against the back of his neck, murmuring something under his breath to the exhausted elf. Legolas, slipping past Bard, headed urgently towards his friend. Hearing him and looking up, Belhadron reached out to Legolas, who pulled him into a rough embrace. They stood there, Belhadron's head on Legolas' shoulder and their arms tight around each other, for a few seconds in sheer relief at having passed through it all.

Thranduil grasped Legolas' shoulder. "Come," he said softly, and Legolas pulled away, allowing Thranduil to wrap an arm around his waist and take some of his weight. Belhadron staggered again and Gandalf stepped forwards, supporting the elf. As soon as he began to follow Legolas, something in Belhadron loosened and his head dropped forwards as he sucked in deep breaths. The healers hovered around them as they made their way to Thranduil's tent.

"I hope they're alright."

The murmur from beside him made Bard jump. He had forgotten that Bilbo was there. Beginning to walk after the elves and Gandalf, Bard looked down at the hobbit.

"I think they're more exhausted than anything else," he replied. "Though that is a danger in itself." Bilbo nodded, watching the backs of the elves, and Bard followed his gaze. Belhadron had one arm around Gandalf's shoulders and it appeared as if the wizard was talking slowly to him, for he still was breathing too fast and shallow. Just ahead of them Legolas was leaning on Thranduil, his head nearly resting on the Elvenking's shoulder and his feet dragging. Thranduil's arm tightened around his waist.

"He seems very close to Legolas," Bard murmured. Bilbo looked up at him, confused. "Thranduil," Bard elaborated. "He looked…alarmed when Legolas staggered, more so than I have ever seen him. And I've seen him bringing in wounded from the battlefield."

"Well of course he was alarmed," Bilbo replied. "He has to care a lot for Legolas. He is Legolas' father, after all."

Bard's mind stuttered to a halt. "What?" he managed to get out. Bilbo looked surprised.

"My dear Bard, didn't you know?" he asked. "I didn't realise until just before the battle, but it was fairly obvious once I saw it. Legolas is Thranduil's son."

Up ahead, the two elves in question finally reached Thranduil's tent and ducked inside. Gandalf quickly followed, with even those few seconds with Legolas out of sight enough for Belhadron to start panicking once again. The healers were next to enter, and Bilbo followed them with a concerned look. Finally Bard brought up the rear, and as he ducked through and saw Thranduil's worried frown as he took Legolas' weight, the way Legolas' head fell easily to his shoulder, he wondered how he hadn't seen it before.

0-o-0-o-0

They were absolutely exhausted. Gandalf wondered how far they'd gone, how far they'd pushed themselves, as he came forwards to begin to help undo their armour and pull it off. Belhadron was swaying where he stood, gaze blankly fixed on the tent wall in front of him as Gandalf undid buckles and slipped the metal shoulder plates up over his head. Gandalf still talked softly to him, and gradually Belhadron started to breathe normally once more.

Legolas was half leant on Thranduil, and the Elvenking worked around him as he pulled off his quiver and bow, setting it to one side with the rest of their weapons. A healer was attending to each of them. Gandalf was relieved to see them not looking too worried, even at the blood sheeting down Belhadron's face from a freshly opened gash or the deep scrapes across Legolas' cheek.

Bard stepped up to help, undoing the buckles and laces holding Legolas' armour together as Gandalf did the same for Belhadron. Both of the elves stumbled when the heavy jackets came off, Bard reaching forwards to brace Legolas so he didn't fall. Belhadron, who had started at Legolas' movement, seemed to relax ever so slightly at the sight, before his gaze went blank once more.

"Legolas," Thranduil said. "Greenleaf." Legolas blinked and looked up. He nodded, and then seemed to find some more energy from somewhere to begin reporting what had happened.

"They were tracking a large band of orcs south-west," Gandalf said in a low voice, translating for Bard and Bilbo, who was standing in one corner of the tent looking like he was feeling rather useless. It appeared as if Legolas was too tired to even realise he wasn't speaking in a language everyone could understand. "They were already over a day out from here, with supplies for perhaps another day or more, when Legolas realised the orcs were heading in the direction of the Long Lake and the people there."

Bard sucked in a sharp breath and Legolas turned to him, uttering some sort of reassurance in a tongue he couldn't understand. "They're unharmed," Gandalf translated. "Legolas offered the company the option of continuing to bring down these orcs, knowing they would have little supplies for the final leg of the journey back here, or to turn back then. Naturally, they all continued. They caught the orcs after two days out of the battle and cut them all down. There were few wounds that were more than superficial. After a brief rest, they returned."

Thranduil frowned, and asked Legolas something in their own tongue. It took Legolas a second or two to reply, and then it was Gandalf's turn to frown. "Did I hear that right?" he asked Thranduil. "Eighty leagues in four days?"

Thranduil nodded. "You heard correctly," he said, his voice eerily blank.

"What?" asked Bard. "That cannot be possible."

"Even for elves, that is pushing it," Gandalf said. "No wonder they look dead on their feet." Thranduil turned swiftly to glare at Gandalf, and he held up a hand. "Poor choice of words, nothing more," he said reassuringly. "Let the healers look at them, Thranduil."

Thranduil relented, and soon Legolas and Belhadron were both sitting slumped on the bed in the tent with a healer looking over them each. Thranduil was forced to step back and he ran one hand through his hair with a hiss through clenched teeth.

"Thranduil," Gandalf said warningly, getting up from where he had been sitting to one side of the tent. Bard had found himself a corner to stay out of the way and was putting the discarded armour back together, doing up all the laces and buckles once more. Bilbo was sitting beside him, looking a little lost until Bard handed him a cloth and he began to clean Sting.

Thranduil blinked and looked away, jaw clenched. Wearily Legolas looked up from where a healer was pressing on his ribs over a large bruise spread across one side. "Adar," he murmured. Thranduil turned and moved to him, forcing the worry from his features. Legolas smiled slightly. "It's not too bad," he said. "Don't worry so much."

"I know," Thranduil replied automatically. He reached out briefly for Legolas and rested one hand around his shoulders, ignoring the glare from the healer for getting in the way. "But I cannot help worrying."

"Elbereth forbid that Thranduil is not as stubborn as he could possibly be," Gandalf grumbled. Belhadron huffed a laugh under his breath, just awake enough to listen to what was being said. Thranduil, for a brief moment, genuinely smiled.

The healers soon left after determining there was nothing serious going on, Thranduil all but pushing them out of the tent. As soon as they left he sighed, remaining where he stood and looking lost. Gandalf got up again. "Old friend," he said softly. "Thranduil."

Thranduil jolted. "We've still got a lot to do," he said, hardening his voice. "Master Baggins, would you do me the favour of fetching all of the supplies by the fire outside? There should be food, blankets, and water boiling over the fire." Bilbo nodded, jumping to his feet and hurrying out of the tent. Bard looked up, and then went back to the armour around his feet.

As soon as Bilbo had brought the supplies in Thranduil pulled out the lembas, breaking a corner off and pressing it into Legolas' hand. Gandalf, pretending not to notice how the Elvenking's hands were very definitely not shaking, stepped forwards to look to Belhadron.

"Here, try and eat this," he said as he placed a piece of lembas into his hands. Belhadron merely stared at it and Gandalf gently grasped his chin, tilting his head up. "Belhadron," he murmured.

Belhadron blinked, looking completely lost. Still he wasn't breathing quite properly, breaths coming a little fast and shallow. It was perhaps sheer determination that was keeping him from toppling over at this point, exhaustion coupling with the head wound sending him deep into his own mind. Gandalf sighed. "Bard," he said, turning his head. "Is there anything else than lembas here?"

Bard got up and sifted through the supplies. "Not in terms of food," he replied. "I could go-"

"Frame it as an order." Thranduil's voice was weary, and he looked despairing as Gandalf caught his eye. He was crouched in front of Legolas, wringing out a cloth as he began to try and remove the dried blood that had crept down from his cheek. Gandalf raised one eyebrow. "I hate it, but it will work," Thranduil said. "Give him an order and he will do his best to follow it."

Gandalf huffed. "If it will work," he said reluctantly. He turned back to Belhadron, grasping his chin and making him look at him. "Belhadron," he said, adopting a sterner tone and holding out the piece of lembas once more. "Eat this."

Belhadron blinked, and then took the lembas from Gandalf. The wizard felt a little coil of disgust in how easily he accepted the order and began to eat, if slowly and still with shaking hands. "What has this world done to you?" Gandalf muttered to himself.

Thranduil glanced sharply at him. "Nothing he has not chosen," he snapped abruptly, switching into Westron. "Nothing he has not decided for himself. Do not deny him that, Mithrandir, do not take that away from him along with everything else he's given. And don't try to put it on me."

Gandalf merely held Thranduil's gaze, and the Elvenking eventually subsided. He turned back to Legolas, the hot water at his feet slowly turning pink as the blood was washed from Legolas' shoulder and neck. Soon Bard set aside the armour and began to help as he could.

"You match," he couldn't help saying as he wetted another cloth in the hot water, looking at the matching wounds and bruises on both of their cheeks. Gandalf huffed in amusement, Thranduil didn't even react, but to his surprise Legolas burst out laughing, grinning as he said something to Belhadron in their own tongue. Belhadron echoed his laugh with a wry grin, mumbling something back that even Gandalf couldn't make out.

Thranduil shut his eyes for a moment upon hearing Legolas laugh, resting his hand on Legolas' neck to feel the strong beat there. He couldn't help the relief that flooded through him, the brief image of his son devoid of blood or weapons, not afraid or angry or so exhausted he's staggering. The next second grief and worry overpowered the relief and he returned to cleaning his son of his own blood.

Legolas, slightly more awake now he had some food in him, looked up at his father. "What has happened here?" he murmured as Thranduil began to scrub the blood from his throat.

"We've lost a few hundred elves," Thranduil said steadily. His voice was completely unlike anything Bard had ever heard from him before, softer and more tender than he could have imagined from the formidable Elvenking. "More are wounded, but not too many. Most are out scouting, if moving a lot slower than you did."

Legolas looked questioningly at Bard. "About eighty of my men died," he said, trying to keep his voice even. "Again, more wounded. But we came through. We'll rebuild."

"We all did a great thing here," Gandalf said, tilting Belhadron's head to look at the gash across his temple. "Do not forget that."

Legolas managed a weak smile. "I am too tired…to remember anything," he murmured. "Can we sleep?"

Thranduil huffed a laugh, looking surprised with himself that he did so. "Not quite yet," he replied. "Belhadron, are you still awake?"

Belhadron blinked, and then slowly nodded. "Just about," he muttered with the hints of a grin. He looked over at Legolas and, seemingly reassured by what he saw, let his gaze drop to the tent floor once more.

Eventually most of the blood had been removed. Even with what they had eaten, both Legolas and Belhadron were flagging once again. They'd reached their limits a while ago now. Thranduil looked up, one hand keeping Legolas from tilting too far forwards. "Master Baggins," he said. "Would you take those blankets there and spread them out on the floor in front of the bed, on top of each other?" Bilbo looked confused, but did as he asked.

Thranduil reached over and tugged a few of the blankets into place, piling them on top of each other. "There should be more outside, Master Baggins," he said. "Could you fetch them?"

Bilbo nodded, and disappeared outside. By the time he'd found them and brought them back, Belhadron had gone from sitting on the bed to sitting on the piled blankets, looking up and speaking wearily in hushed tones to Legolas. Even in their exhausted states, their tongue was lovelier than Bilbo could have ever imagined of elves. Legolas sighed and Belhadron reached up to him, loosely grasping his hand. Something deep within him calmed as he did so, and in the next few moments he lay down, the blankets obviously now a makeshift bed for him.

Gandalf took one of the blankets from Bilbo and draped it over Belhadron, followed by the other he was carrying. The tent was quiet now, Bard sitting and looking tired in a corner, Gandalf checking over Belhadron to his apparent annoyance, judging from his expression, and Legolas leaning wearily on Thranduil. As Bilbo sat back to one side once more Thranduil shifted on the bed, moving so Legolas was fully leant on him and his head was rested heavily on Thranduil's shoulder.

Carefully, so as not to disturb him, Thranduil pulled his thick cloak from the back of a chair and draped it over Legolas, pulling it close around him. Legolas merely sighed, and leant further into his father. Thranduil, not caring who was watching, put his arms around Legolas and held him close, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Any fierceness drained out of him the longer he sat there holding his son, leaving just a deep tenderness that looked painful and far too difficult to comprehend.

Bard made to say something but Thranduil shushed him, one hand going to Legolas' hair and running gently through it. After a few minutes he stilled, trying to look down at his son without actually moving. "Is he asleep?" he murmured to Gandalf.

Gandalf watched him for a few moments, and then crouched down beside Belhadron. "They both are," he said eventually, straightening with a wince and sitting back in his chair. "Finally." Thranduil looked over at Bard.

"What is it?" he asked, returning to run one hand gently through Legolas' hair, again and again. Bard shook his head.

"Oh, nothing," he said. "I was just…" He trailed off. "Are they going to be alright? Belhadron's head wound looks fairly nasty, and he seemed…panicked."

"Elves can endure much worse wounds than men," Gandalf said gruffly. "Belhadron has a hard head. But he's always been fiercely loyal to Legolas, and protective of him as well. Nobody could think straight after four days of constant movement, a battle and other skirmishes, and then a head wound. Try and separate him from the one person whose life he probably values most, after all this, and he's going to panic." His tone was reproachful, and Thranduil eyed him warily.

"He made a choice," he reminded Gandalf. "Don't take that dignity away from him. He made it long ago, keeps on making it, and I have nothing to do with it. It's called loyalty." More than that, it was loyalty to a person. Not to the Valar, or some intangible cause forever out of reach. This was perhaps the simplest form of loyalty, in some ways: the deep trust in another person, and the love for them.

Gandalf huffed, but conceded for now and inclined his head to Thranduil. "Are you going to try and give him a lordship again?" he asked.

Thranduil actually smiled. "I might," he replied, studying Belhadron below him. "But he has refused it before. He will most likely do so again. Besides, they'll have far too much on their minds once they wake up for me to add more." Legolas and Belhadron had been gone for four days, and a lot had happened in their absence. People were dead, friends and elves under their command that had been alive last they had seen them.

It was not knowing, Thranduil thought, that was the worst. There was no way to deal with uncertainty until it decided to make itself certain.

He sighed softly. "I must go and check on the others of the company who returned," he said softly. He began to move to stand. Legolas slept on unaware as Thranduil settled him on the bed and pulled another blanket over him, hand ghosting over the deep scrapes down his cheek. He looked over at Gandalf. "You know what to do, Mithrandir," he said. He turned to Bard and Bilbo, almost as an afterthought.

"Thank you," he said. "For your help."

Bard inclined his head. "I'll stay and lend a hand anyway," he said. "I don't have anything else to do at the moment, and my men are handling things well enough." He leaned forwards to glance outside. "It's fairly late now."

Thranduil nodded. He looked over at Bilbo. "You do not have to stay, Master Baggins, if you wish to go," he said. "There's nothing much to do here but keep an eye on them."

Bilbo, who had been sitting quietly in a corner for all this time, feeling rather out of his depth, shook his head. "I can stay," he replied quietly. He was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to sleep after all this anyway. Thranduil shrugged slightly.

"Whatever you wish," he said softly. He turned towards the entrance to the tent and cleared his throat. The worries and fears resting heavily on him he pushed from his shoulders as he straightened then, and though he was not wearing a crown, he was a King once more. He strode on out into the chill night air.


	23. It Was Worth It

There was a draught of cold air as the flap of the tent billowed shut behind Thranduil, and Gandalf tugged at his grey cloak. Legolas murmured something in his sleep and shifted, turning onto one side. For a moment it was silent.

"So he's Thranduil's son."

Gandalf looked over at Bard, one eyebrow raised in slight surprise. "Yes," he said slowly. "You didn't know?"

Bard huffed a quiet laugh, and shook his head. "I had no idea until Bilbo told me," he replied. "Though I suppose it's fairly obvious now."

Gandalf shrugged. "What you saw of Thranduil just now was him at his most unguarded that I've ever seen in a long time. Legolas always has a habit of bringing it out of him. Legolas also isn't particularly fond of his title, in a way, so he would have never told you of his own accord. I'm not actually surprised, now that I think about it, that you didn't know." He looked over at Bilbo. "How did you work it out?"

"I don't quite know," Bilbo replied. "I just noticed." Gandalf, surprisingly, smiled.

"There are more surprises in you than I think I will ever see, Bilbo," he said fondly. Bilbo laughed, trying not to let his hand drift to the ring in his pocket.

"If only you knew," he replied with a grin that was only just a shade forced. His gaze was drawn once more to the two sleeping figures. "Will they really be alright?"

Gandalf smiled. "They've both been through much worse," he said. "And we can only be glad that they are but battered and nothing more." He looked over at Bard. "If Legolas had been hurt much worse than this, or Elbereth forbid, killed, then you, Bard, might not have found such a willing ally in Thranduil."

Bard raised one eyebrow, and Gandalf huffed a rough laugh. "The one thing he values most in the world, the one person he will give anything for, is asleep over there," he said, looking over to where Legolas was nearly hidden under the blankets and Thranduil's cloak, in case it wasn't completely obvious already. "I have known Thranduil for a long time, Bard, and still I don't understand him, not really. Our perspectives are too different, you see. But there are a few absolutes with him."

"He will always try and do the best for his people," Gandalf continued, ticking the list off on his fingers. "He will always distrust Galadriel. He will always be prideful and stubborn. And he will always, no matter what, love Legolas beyond anything else on this world. Stand between him and his son and for Legolas, he will destroy you."

Bard sat back, raising his eyebrows. "Gandalf," he drawled, resting his hands on the arms of his chair. "That sounds like a threat."

"A warning, perhaps," Gandalf replied evenly. "Just in case." Bard watched him warily, but eventually nodded. He reached for the armour that was piled in the tent, and a wet cloth. Silently, he began to clean the metal plates of the dirt and mud and blood. After a few minutes Bilbo joined him with a cloth of his own.

Gandalf heaved a sigh, and set to watching the two sleeping elves.

Thranduil stayed gone for a while, during which Bard and Bilbo managed to take apart and clean, if fairly quickly and not too thoroughly, both sets of armour. Bard made to reach for their weapons, encrusted with blood and dirt, but stopped at Gandalf's shake of his head.

Bard made to say something, but at that moment Bilbo rose from his seat in the corner. "Is he cold?" he asked, looking at Belhadron. Gandalf's gaze followed his, and to his dismay he saw fine tremors running through Belhadron. He heaved himself from his chair and crouched down next to Belhadron as the elf twisted his head to one side, a muffled groan forcing its way through clenched teeth.

Gandalf reached out and, ever so carefully, laid one hand on Belhadron's forehead. He murmured a few words under his breath. Belhadron slowly stilled, coming to relax on his side. Gandalf sat back. "So much for them sleeping through the night," he muttered.

"Was that the plan?" Bard asked, leaning forwards to check that Legolas was still sleeping soundly. He knew that none of his men would go with a full night's sleep for probably weeks, if not more. He knew that he himself would wake up with a muffled shout or screams still ringing in his ears, cold sweat beaded on his face, for many more nights to come. He wondered if the elves in the camp were the same, or if they were used to it by now. The thought that they could be almost made him feel sick.

"I didn't think they would," Gandalf replied. "But there was some hope for it nonetheless." He sighed slightly. "The things the world has done to them," he murmured.

Bard frowned, and sat up straighter. "I'm with Thranduil on this one, actually," he said. "I don't know Legolas that well, and I know Belhadron even less. In fact, I don't think he particularly likes me. But this must have been their choice. If Thranduil loves his son as much as you say he does, then he cannot have forced Legolas to become the warrior he is. And I really doubt anyone could force Belhadron to do something he doesn't want to."

"I don't deny that," Gandalf replied evenly. "But the world has been cruel to the elves of the Woodland Realm, to Sindarin elves like Thranduil and Legolas, for a long time now. Thranduil has not ordered Legolas to make any of the decisions he has made, he never would, but the state of their realm forced everyone's hand when it comes to things like this."

"But you sound like you pity them," Bard responded quickly. "Surely they've chosen this?" His face sobered further. "Artom, and the men who stood as bait for the orcs," he said. "They chose to do that. They didn't have to, but they did, and they died for it. All I can do is respect them, not pity them for the choices that they made. Surely it is the same here, for them?" He shifted restlessly in his chair. "They damn well must think that what they do is worth it."

"Hear, hear," Bilbo said quietly from his corner. Gandalf looked over at him with a frown, and he nodded. "I think Bard has a point," he said, sounding perhaps more confidently than he felt. "But it's a little late for a deep discussion about our choices and free will, not to mention not really the best time." He got up from his corner and pulled another blanket over Belhadron, tucking it in a little. "It can't hurt," he said. "It is quite cold tonight. Does Legolas need one?"

"Thranduil's cloak is thick enough," Gandalf replied, pulling it a little higher over Legolas. The two of them slept on, oblivious to the quiet conversation passing over their heads.

Thranduil came back into the tent a little while later, looking worried when he thought nobody was looking at him. He checked Legolas immediately, and then Belhadron, and only then did he shed his silver coat, throwing it haphazardly over a chair. He looked tense, and sank down into a chair after dragging it as close as it possibly could get to the bed.

Gandalf and Bard kept quiet, watching him carefully. Thranduil exhaled heavily, running one hand over his face and then pushing back his hair. Unable to sit still, he reached over and pulled on the cloak covering Legolas, tucking it more securely around his shoulders.

Finally, he spoke. "Mithrandir," he said, voice weary and sounding pained. "I think I'll have that wine now."

0-o-0-o-0

The wind had picked up, and was snapping the flap of the tent against the wall until Gandalf got up and fastened it down. The noise died down quickly inside and it was nearly silent. Only the occasional rustle as Thranduil wiped down Legolas and Belhadron's weapons, and as Bilbo tried not to fall asleep in the corner, could be heard.

Eventually Bilbo excused himself and went to sleep in an actual bed. His feet were dragging, a testament to the late hour. Bard stayed for a while longer, talking quietly with Gandalf about what they were going to do now, what he was going to do. From the sounds of it, not that Thranduil was paying that much attention, Gandalf was quietly trying to convince Bard that he could take up the mantle of leader after all this, and had been attempting this for some time.

Thranduil couldn't find it within himself to be overly concerned. He had rather a lot of leverage over Bard at the moment, and even if the man was having second thoughts, it was rather too late for that now. He pretty much didn't have a choice. It helped, of course, that he would be a good enough leader after all of this.

They were rather ruthless thoughts, but he didn't particularly care. He was a King, and one of his jobs was to be ruthless. He liked Bard, for a man, but that didn't mean he'd exploit him a little to serve his own realm.

Legolas shifted, nearly hidden beneath blankets and Thranduil's cloak, and Thranduil reached out to him without a thought. Legolas twisted his head uneasily, murmuring something that even Thranduil could barely hear. He tenderly ran his hand through Legolas' hair. Legolas had always found the gesture comforting, ever since he was a young child, and Thranduil could remember the days spent outside with a book in his hand and his child asleep in his lap as he ran one hand through Legolas' hair. It had been long even then, and like silk through his fingers. Now, mud and dried blood and knots disrupted the flow through his fingers, but it was still his son, whole and relatively unharmed, and he took comfort in that.

Bard sighed, and got up wearily from his chair. "I should return to my own tent," he said with a wry smile. "Thorin's funeral is the day after tomorrow, isn't it?"

Gandalf nodded. "And Fili and Kili's," he added. "But yes, it is. And then we'll return, I presume."

Thranduil nodded, reclaiming his hand and returning to cleaning Legolas' knife. He made a note in his mind to ask whether the twin blade had been found. If not, he needed to have another set made soon enough. Legolas had more knives, but only sparring blades or simple hunting knives. He had nothing as ornate as these, and nothing as treasured, either.

Bard nodded, and headed for the tent entrance. He paused in front of Thranduil. "I'm…I'm glad that they are both alright," he said softly. Thranduil inclined his head, and Bard cleared his throat slightly uneasily, turning away.

"Bard," Gandalf said. Bard stopped, one hand pushing back the tent flap. He looked back over his shoulder and Gandalf, long accustomed to looking for weakness and doubt and a million other things, saw the heavy weight pressing down on his shoulders.

"Time will heal most wounds," he said gruffly. "Remember that." Bard nodded steadily, set his shoulders, and then left.

Thranduil waited until he was gone to turn to Gandalf. "That's a lie," he said evenly.

Gandalf raised one eyebrow. "Is it?" he replied. "The memories of the Last Alliance, the battles then, are they not less potent now than they were then for you? Are the memories od Doriath still as sharp as they were?"

Thranduil tilted his head to one side and smiled sharply. "Why Mithrandir," he said, voice brittle steel. "Shouldn't you know by now not to bait me?"

"I'm still right," Gandalf said back quickly.

"You're not," Thranduil murmured quietly. His gaze fell to Legolas and he moved as if to run his hand through his hair once more, before thinking better of it and stilling. "Again, you fail to see things from my perspective, from Bard's," he replied. "It's a lot easier to forget when you can walk away. Stay, and those memories are just as damaging as they were back then." He sighed softly.

"People who say that," he said heavily. "That time will heal all wounds, they assume that the grief is finite. That it has an end. I've lived on this earth for a very long time. I've never seen that. And neither have you. You should know better."

Gandalf huffed. "You're far too defeatist sometimes," he replied. "Would you like to tell Bard what you just said?" He paused, and Thranduil's silence was answer enough. "I thought not. We lie to ourselves all the time when it comes to grief. I might as well lie to Bard at the same time. But I've never lied to you."

Thranduil laughed bitterly. "But you certainly keep things hidden," he replied. "Take Master Baggins, for example. He is not just a halfling. Don't think I haven't been too preoccupied to notice."

Gandalf made to speak, but Thranduil shook his head. "On this, I won't press," he said. "I can only tell it's important, and after all this, I would rather not get involved."

"You may have to, by the end," Gandalf replied steadily.

Thranduil groaned. "We are not having this argument again," he muttered. "We do not have the strength you wish for. I will not abandon my realm for your greater cause. That is enough."

"What of Legolas?"

Thranduil's eyes narrowed. "What of Legolas?" he asked icily.

"If he decides to look beyond his realm, will you stop him?"

Thranduil actually thought for a moment. Eventually, he shook his head. "To do so would be to doubt his heart," he said softly. "And that I would never do. He must make his own choices, if there are any left at the end of this."

"I'm glad to hear it," Gandalf said. "Besides, he has inherited your stubbornness, if it is more gentle and not sharpened, like yours, by pride. If he sets his mind on it, I do not think you could stop him."

Thranduil laughed softly under his breath. "I could not," he replied. "But at times like this I am reminded of just how much he means to me. I think you see it, Mithrandir. You know that I would destroy anything that threatened him if harm came to him. History repeats, again and again, and I have few choices anymore. I will make sure Legolas has his."

0-o-0-o-0

In the early morning light, the camp was beginning to wake up. The guards switched over, those finishing their rotation heading straight for the fires burning in the midst of the camp. Others went back out to continue digging the graves, though the number needed was dwindling more and more.

Thranduil stood outside his tent, listening to one of his captains. "We've nearly finished burying the dead," the captain said, looking tired and grieved but on his feet nonetheless. "Beyond that, there is little to do other than care for the wounded. I spoke to the healers before I came to you, and they are relatively certain that all of ours who are critically wounded are going to pull through." His face was worried as he said it, and he couldn't help glancing back towards the tents where his friends were lying.

Thranduil nodded. "That's good to hear," he said. "Make sure we are ready for the funerals tomorrow. I want a contingent of thirty elves ready to go in the morning."

"Any elves, my Lord?" asked the captain. Thranduil shook his head.

"From your companies only," he replied. "There should be enough in the camp now Legolas and his company has returned. If you have to, borrow what you can from others to look as smart as possible."

The captain smiled slightly. "There is a lot of clean armour lying around at the moment," he replied. "That shouldn't be too hard." He nodded to Thranduil. "I will gather the thirty elves and brief them on what it means to keep their expressions neutral and their opinions to themselves. They won't cause any issues."

Thranduil fought to keep the wry grin off his face. "Thank you," he said. He caught the captain's glance to the tent behind him "They're both alright, by the way. Exhausted and still sleeping, but mostly unharmed." The captain bowed with a murmured thanks, relief evident on his face. Thranduil nodded, and then turned back inside his tent.

He was greeted to the sight of Legolas awake and sitting up on the bed, Thranduil's cloak pulled around his shoulders. He looked tired, but not exhausted, and Thranduil gave into the urge to stride over and gather his son into a tight embrace.

Legolas smiled, and returned the embrace. "I'm fine," he murmured as Thranduil pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "I can't really breathe at the moment, but I'm fine."

Thranduil huffed a laugh and released him. "How is your cheek?" he asked, grasping Legolas' chin and tilting his head to one side to look at the scrapes. "It looks bruised."

Legolas shook his head. "It is, but not too badly. Hurts to talk a little, but there's not much I can do about that." Thranduil frowned, and Legolas grasped his arm. "Adar," he said softly. "It could have been a lot worse."

"If you ever become a father, you will dread those words," Thranduil replied. "They're not exactly comforting." He passed Legolas his hunting tunic and then ducked outside, remembering something he'd forgotten to say to the captain earlier. By the time Legolas was dressed Belhadron had woken up, and was freeing himself from tangled blankets. Legolas laughed at him, before reaching over to help and toss him his hunting tunic.

Belhadron groaned as he sat up and close to every muscle in his body, and his head, protested the movement. "What time is it?"

"Dawn," Legolas said, taking some lembas from the side and snapping it in half to hand some to Belhadron. "It feels later."

"Has your father said anything about what has happened whilst we were gone?" asked Belhadron around a mouthful of lembas. It had been a casual enough question, but as soon as he said it both of them suddenly fell silent.

In the next moment Legolas was on his feet, pulling Belhadron up with him as they both realised at the same time the implications of what might have happened whilst they were gone. They'd left without even looking back at the battlefield, and it had been four days since then.

Legolas pushed back the tent flap and rushed outside with Belhadron close behind him. Thranduil was with the captain he'd just spoken to again, and at the movement the captain spun on one heel. "Maedir!" Legolas exclaimed, and with a nod from his King, Maedir turned to them and pulled first Legolas, and then Belhadron, into rough embraces. Behind them Thranduil moved away, heading off into camp.

"I am glad to see you two up," Maedir said with a grin. "You looked awful last night."

Legolas nodded and smiled briefly. "I'm glad to see you," he said. "We don't know much of what has occurred here since we left."

"And we left not knowing much either," Belhadron added. "What has happened, Maedir? Who have we lost?"

Maedir's face fell immediately, twisted in pain and grief, and Legolas and Belhadron shared an apprehensive glance. Legolas felt the seconds of silence stretch between them, and the worry gripped and clawed at his throat once more.


	24. Devils and Dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is short, and potentially angsty. I can't specifically warn for anything in the notes here, because it would spoil everything, but if you feel you might want to be warned, then check the endnotes first.
> 
> Once you've read the chapter, go and listen to Bruce Springsteen's 'Devils and Dust', which was the inspiration for the title and some of the story.

She stirred and woke as a cold draught of air snuck into the tent, winding its way around her throat and chest, trying to settle deep into her bones. She pushed it away, for now.

Two figures stepped into the tent, and she watched through hazy eyes as their faces crumpled upon seeing her. One, his dark hair unbraided around his shoulders, stepped forwards and she couldn’t tell whether it was her or him that was shaking.

“Rhavaniel,” he murmured brokenly. She tried to smile, but through the pain and haze she couldn’t tell whether or not she’d managed it. He dropped down to his knees beside the bed, reaching for her. Behind him, the other elf sat down on the edge of the bed and ran one hand through his golden hair.

The elf knelt beside her gently smoothed one thumb across her cheek. “Rhavaniel,” he murmured again, the name catching in his throat.

“Belhadron,” she said softly. “Legolas. I’ll be alright.” She pushed herself up with one trembling arm, Belhadron immediately there to help pull her up into a sitting position. Her head spun, the world rushing around her, but she didn’t care and held herself up as best as she could. She wanted to stay awake for once.

“What happened…to your faces?” she asked, looking between the two of them. “Legolas-”

“I’m alright,” he said with an attempt at a smile, looking up and grasping Rhavaniel’s good hand. “He was too slow with an orc a few days ago,” he said, looking over at Belhadron. “And I took a fall down from Ravenhill. Scraped off half my cheek doing so, but it’ll heal.”

Belhadron didn’t say anything, didn’t do anything other than keep his arm around Rhavaniel’s shoulders to keep her upright. She looked over at him. “Too slow?” she asked.

He huffed. “Took my eyes off an orc for two seconds, and I get knocked out,” he replied. “I’m fine, though, it was about two days ago and I was only out for a few minutes.”

Rhavaniel frowned. “Two days?”

“We only got back last night,” Legolas said, his voice blank. “We took out a company of sixty to hunt down some of the orcs that have fled. It took us four days, to catch up with them and get back, and we were so exhausted we didn’t…we didn’t even think-”

Rhavaniel squeezed his hand, dreading her next words.

“Thenidon and Carandor are dead.”

Legolas bowed his head, hands scraping through his hair as he squeezed his eyes shut. His shoulders shook. Belhadron looked away, face twisted and eyes bright. “We know,” he finally said. “We just saw Maedir. He told us…” He trailed off and shut his eyes, barely keeping himself pulled together for now.

“Do you know… do you know how?” Legolas asked quietly.

“Alassien told me,” Rhavaniel replied. Her voice was steadier than she thought it would have been. “She’s unharmed, if Maedir didn’t say. Her company was spared the worst of the fighting. Thenidon was found…struck down by poisoned arrows. Carandor…” She sighed, letting out a low groan as her arm was jostled. “Carandor died two nights ago,” she murmured. “He’d been stabbed, badly. He hung on, but the wounds were too much.” Her chin wobbled, and she sucked in a deep breath to try and calm herself.

Legolas dropped his head back down to his hands, squeezing his eyes shut. Belhadron just stayed still, and through the haze of pain and loss that had settled over her since she’d first woken up, Rhavaniel could see the anger beginning to coil deep within him.

Legolas cleared his throat. “What of…What do the healers say?” he asked, dreading the words even as they left his lips. He looked down at Rhavaniel’s right arm, heavily bandaged and immobilised against her chest. “Of your wounds?” Rhavaniel gazed at him, and then her face twisted. Tears spilled down her cheeks.

Belhadron was there, gathering her into his arms and letting her cry silently against him as Legolas grasped her shoulder. Rhavaniel, at the simple gesture, started to shake. Belhadron just wrapped his arms tighter around her and glared at the world, defying it to take anything else away.

0-o-0-o-0

Bard rubbed at his forehead, hoping that the headache would leave him alone. He’d found himself sitting with his captains in one of the tents. Haldon was to one side of him, and had found a new anger ever since his brother had died. Now, he was advocating fairly loudly for the Master of Laketown to be deposed. He didn’t say it, but Bard knew he expected him to take his place.

“What has he ever done for us?” Haldon asked angrily. “All of us here, we’re soldiers, not his lackeys. We’ve suffered under him. I know all of us here have felt it, and it’s worse for many more back home. He has done nothing here. Why should any of us follow him anymore?”

There were a few murmured agreements around the small group. Bard held up one hand. “He is still the Master,” he said.

“Bard,” Haldon said, almost pleading. “You know he is greedy and vain and we will fail, if he stays. You know most of the people will only follow you now.”

“That remains to be seen,” Bard replied. He looked around at his captains, and then sighed. “Look, I share your concerns,” he said. “I do. And if in a few months, when we are back on our feet, the Master is still a concern, then we will take action. But I am not going to try and take over anything at the moment, when the people are under so much already. Let us rebuild first.”

He held each captain’s gaze. After a few long moments they all nodded. Haldon was the most stubborn of them all, staring back at Bard defiantly. “What about Dale?” he asked.

“What about it?” Bard replied, already dreading the next response.

“The crown belongs to you,” Haldon said. “You are Girion’s heir, and Smaug is dead. With the aid of the Elvenking and his people, and maybe even the Dwarves, we could rebuild even more. We could have Dale once more.”

The rest of his captains looked up, interested, and Bard inwardly sighed. “What you say is true,” he said slowly. “But that is as yet undecided. King Thranduil will not just keep helping us indefinitely, and he will want something in return.”

“Do you know?” asked one of the others. “What he wants?”

Bard shook his head. “We have discussed it, but there have been more pressing matters at hand,” he replied. “So I do not know for sure. I am sure it will involve trade and other such things. Another reason that we shouldn’t just overthrow the Master. If we do so, we will turn most of the people who know finances, taxes and trade and a lot of things needed to run Laketown, against us.”

“But what about Dale?” Haldon pressed again. Bard shook his head.

“It is, as of now, undecided,” he said. “If Dale is to be retaken, then Laketown must first be rebuilt. It is not out of the question, not by a long way.” There was a slight sigh of relief in the tent, and Bard tried to stop himself from shying away from the thoughts of responsibility and everything that he would have to be.

He stood. “Check on your men, and then get some rest,” he said. “Remember it is Thorin’s funeral tomorrow. Make sure you and the men that are coming, those we’ve selected, are looking as smart as possible.” The captains nodded, and Bard smiled. “We’re nearly done,” he said. “Nearly finished. Just hold out for a few more days.”

“The worst is truly over,” said one of the captains, an elder man whom Bard had found invaluable when it came to organising his men and strategizing plans. Bard shot him a grateful look as the others nodded, and then slipped out into the camp.

He found himself wandering to the edge of the camp, looking out at the great expanse of Erebor. He sighed. He still had little idea what he was doing, had been jumping into the dark ever since Smaug had first attacked. His captains were right. The Master would bankrupt and cripple them, take the money Bard had negotiated from Erebor and spend it all. Someone would have to do something. He just wasn’t sure whether he wanted it to be him.

Bard ran one hand through his hair, tugging on knots until he gave up, and just scraped his hair back from his face. He didn’t even want to think about Dale. He just wanted to go home.

0-o-0-o-0

The day wore on excruciatingly slowly. Legolas and Belhadron moved through the camp silently, and it seemed like at every turn there was another bearer of bad news, another name to be added to the list of the dead. By noon they had to stop, once they’d seen all of their company and given them the names they knew, the dead and wounded.

Legolas and Belhadron walked through the camp side by side, heading for one of the fires burning still in the middle. Belhadron suddenly stopped, twisting to one side. From the shadows of a tent came a soft whine.

Belhadron crouched down, holding out one hand. “Umor,” he said softly. “Hey, Umor, come here.”

Umor whined again, and then appeared from where he had been lying in the shadows. Belhadron’s face fell as the dog limped towards him, one leg not even able to touch the ground. Umor huffed, and then fell to the ground at Belhadron’s feet. He looked up at the elf, panting, and tried to lick one of his hands.

“Ai Elbereth,” Legolas murmured, coming to crouch beside Belhadron. “What’s he done?”

Belhadron cleared his throat, and with a nudge Umor rolled over with a muffled whine. There was a gash down one hind leg, black and ragged. The entire leg was swollen and when Belhadron touched it Umor yelped, trying to scramble away without moving his leg. Belhadron’s face was blank as he ruffled Umor’s fur, the dog licking his hand.

“That’s poisoned,” Legolas said softly. “There’s nothing-”

“I know,” Belhadron replied. “Even if there was, he’s just a dog.” He smoothed back Umor’s fur, again and again as if it would stave off the inevitable. They both knew that a dog was the least important thing here, and they knew their poisons, and when there was nothing they could do but end the dog’s misery.

“Do you have a knife on you?” he asked, his voice completely flat. Legolas went to his hunting knife, but his hand hesitated.

“I can find someone else-”

“No,” Belhadron said softly. “No, he’s our dog. It should be one of us.” He reached for his belt, remembering the knife he had at the small of his back. Legolas’ hand found Umor’s thick fur and he smoothed it, ruffling his head briefly in goodbye. “Give me five minutes.”

“Belhadron,” Legolas said, but Belhadron shook his head and got to his feet. He whistled for Umor, who shakily got up and pressed his nose into Belhadron’s hand. Belhadron walked away, Umor limping and staggering beside him. Legolas sighed, dropping his head before he got up and walked away in the other direction.

He slumped in front of the fire, head buried in his hands. Belhadron returned five minutes later, a conspicuous absence by his side. He was wiping down his knife with a scrap of cloth, over and over again. Legolas could see the blade shaking slightly in his hand.

“Belhadron,” he said, getting to his feet. Belhadron turned away and tossed the cloth into the fire where it flared brightly for a moment. He looked over at Legolas, swallowing heavily.

“How many more?” he asked, face twisting in grief. “How many more are going to die for this?”

Legolas stepped forwards, reaching out for his shoulder. “I know,” was all that he said. He didn’t have anything more. What comfort could he offer him, when he knew the words were meaningless?

Belhadron angrily shrugged off Legolas’ hand. “How many have we lost in this damned battle?” he spat, voice suddenly rising as the anger sparked and burned. “From our archers alone there are twenty six dead. More than forty scouts, out of only the two dozen we have, and countless more across our people. Thenidon and Carandor are dead, Legolas!”

“You don’t think I know that?” Legolas asked. He sighed, dropping his head. “You knew this was coming. We all did.”

“Well that doesn’t make it any damn easier!” Belhadron shouted back at him. “Hundreds of us are dead, Legolas, cut down in the middle of a battle we didn’t even have to fight. Two of our captains, two of our friends, are dead and we can’t even say goodbye because they’re already buried in this Valar-forsaken soil!”

“We knew the risks,” Legolas said back, his voice rising despite his best efforts to control it. “We all know the risks. And I know it doesn’t seem like much, but if I had died instead you know I would have done so gladly if it kept more people safe! We all swore an oath, Belhadron, and you know that we’ll all fulfil it in the end.”

“Don’t you dare,” snarled Belhadron, grasping the front of Legolas’ tunic and hauling him close. “Don’t you dare talk about your death like it doesn’t matter. Don’t you dare tell me that Thenidon, that Carandor, have fulfilled their oaths, knew the risks, and that makes their deaths acceptable. What of all the wounded? What of Thenidon’s wife, what do we tell her?” His voice broke, and his head fell forwards at the next words. “What of Rhavaniel?” he asked, looking up with tear-stained eyes at Legolas. “You heard the healers, what they said. Does she deserve that?”

“Belhadron,” Legolas snapped back. “We chose this. We knew what we were doing. I don’t have anything comforting to say, and you know it, but we chose this, and damn it, we knew the consequences from the beginning.”

“Stop it,” Belhadron growled under his breath. “Stop speaking as if your death wouldn’t matter. Stop speaking as if we just have to accept every damn thing and move on! How many have we lost in this accursed battle? How many elves have we watched die over the years?” Legolas said nothing, and Belhadron’s gaze darkened. “You can’t even tell me,” he said bitterly. “Because you don’t know. Because it’s too many to count. How many more, Legolas? How many more?”

Legolas held Belhadron’s gaze. “I don’t have an answer for you,” he said, struggling to keep his voice even. “I don’t know.”

“Damn it,” Belhadron growled, dropping Legolas and turning away. “Damn it all.” Legolas reached out for him again, but he shook him off. “Don’t,” he spat bitterly.

“Belhadron,” Legolas pleaded, keeping his voice from breaking out of sheer determination. Belhadron looked back at him.

“What has a dog ever done to deserve this?” he asked brokenly. His face twisted in grief. “Maybe we’ve messed up,” he spat out. “Maybe this is all payment for our past wrongs, whatever the Valar think they were. But what has a dog ever done, for me to have to kill him so he doesn’t die slowly from some poison? He was loyal, that was his only fault. And it got him killed.”

He bit back a curse. “I had to put down the dog to stop him suffering anymore. What hope is there for the rest of us damn fools?”

Legolas didn’t have an answer, and Belhadron turned away. Within moments he was gone, disappearing into the camp and from view. Legolas couldn’t find the energy to follow. He crumpled down to one of the logs in front of the fire, buried his head in his hands, and wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the dog is dead. And I want you to know, this was such a difficult decision to make, and I spent weeks agonising over whether killing the dog would just be unnecessary angst, or whether it would work. The ultimate answer to that is not up to me, it's up to all of you. But I decided to kill the dog (and not Rhavaniel, because it was down to one or the other dying for the emotional resonance) because soldiers die in wars, and we all expect that. It's not nice, but anyone who signs up to fight in a war goes into it knowing they might be killed.
> 
> That doesn't happen to a dog. Dogs don't make a conscious decision to fight whilst knowing all the risks- as Belhadron says, they are loyal to people. They can't think beyond that. And so the point of this was to get across, in a way, how wars aren't just fought between soldiers. Every war has had casualties that did not sign up for the possibility of dying, and they died anyway. The world isn't fair- it never has been, and sometimes, the dog dies.


	25. A Soldier's Grief

There was the rustling of cloth from opposite him. Legolas raised his head to see Gandalf coming to sit opposite, arranging his grey cloak around him. Bilbo was with him, hovering a little way away with an anxious expression.

He cleared his throat. "I would not be good company at the moment, Mithrandir," he rasped, wiping at the tears running down his face. Gandalf huffed.

"That's precisely why I'm here," he replied. At that, Legolas let out a bitter laugh.

"Of course," he said. "When everything's fine you are nowhere to be seen, but as soon as something is wrong…there you are." He paused, and then bowed his head. "Forgive me, Mithrandir," he murmured. "That was uncalled for. You do nothing but help us, and I won't repeat the things my father says when he is annoyed."

Gandalf raised one eyebrow. "I shouldn't be surprised," he said, sounding amused. "But I digress from the point." He reached forwards and clasped Legolas' shoulder. "Legolas," he murmured. "What can I do to help?"

Legolas laughed brokenly. "Not even you can bring back the dead or reverse time, Mithrandir," he muttered. "But thank you."

"I take it you've heard, then," Gandalf said, sounding concerned. "I am sorry."

Legolas nodded. "As am I." He wiped away another tear. "Damn it," he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut. Gandalf sat back, and looked around, seemingly noticing a certain absence for the first time.

"Where's Belhadron?"

Legolas waved one hand. "Somewhere," he said, not looking up from the ground. "After finding out who's died and who's wounded, and then having to put down the dog, he was a little upset. He shouted at me some and then stormed off." Fresh tears spilled down his cheeks as he said so, and he ducked his head.

"The dog?" Bilbo blurted out. "Umor?"

Legolas looked up and nodded, jaw clenched. "He'd gotten a poisoned wound on his hind leg. We couldn't have done anything. Besides, he was just a dog." His eyes stung, and he wiped at them furiously. "After everything, and it is the damn dog…"

Bilbo looked confused, and Gandalf sighed. "He was blameless," he said to Bilbo. "After all, he was a dog. His only fault was loyalty. And it got him killed."

"Belhadron's thoughts exactly," Legolas said. He sighed, and ran one hand through his hair. "I'm sorry," he murmured through a sob. Gandalf was silent for a few seconds as Legolas pulled himself marginally more together.

"To have it all thrown at you in one go, when you haven't been here for four days, is rather a lot," Gandalf said with a sad smile. "You know everything, then?"

Legolas nodded. "Thenidon and Carandor are dead," he said slowly. "Rhavaniel is wounded, and badly. Which means that there are only four captains, now: myself, Belhadron, Alassien and Maedir. Twenty-six of my archers are dead. Forty of Rhavaniel's scouts are lost, as are many others from our other elite companies. Alassien fared the best in that regard, perhaps, losing only nine out of her eighty. Maedir has-"

Gandalf cut him off, noticing the flat tone as Legolas kept reporting everything to him. "Legolas," he said. "Greenleaf. Stop." Legolas ground to a halt and pulled in a deep, if shaky, breath.

"Tell me, Mithrandir," he said after a long pause, looking up with red eyes and tear-stained cheeks. "Can we win this?"

"We already have," replied Gandalf, looking around them at the camp. Legolas shook his head.

"Not what I meant. This, this endless damned struggle against everything. Can we win against it?"

Gandalf paused. "Honestly?" he asked. "Not fully. There will always be something there, something to fight. Evil is not as tangible as we may like to think it is. But if you are asking whether we can defeat Sauron, throw him from the land?" He sighed, and sat back. "The Elves of the First Age believed they would never defeat Morgoth, by the end. And yet he was defeated, and chained once more. It would be naïve to think we cannot do the same now. We do not have the power of the First Age, but we may very well not need it. Courage can be found in many other places."

Legolas pulled in another shaky breath. "Somehow that is still not comforting," he murmured. "Nothing changes. Nothing I can do will change anything."

"You don't know that," Gandalf said. Legolas laughed bitterly, which turned into a sob halfway through.

"I've only been trying to do that my entire life," he replied. "I can't make things better. I'll keep going, because it's my life now and to do anything else would be to turn away from my realm and people, but I can't change anything. As my father likes saying, history repeats. The world is broken, perhaps beyond repair. And I'm too small to fix it."

Gandalf sighed deeply, and moved so that he was sitting next to Legolas instead. In a surprisingly caring act, he slung one arm around Legolas' shoulder and pulled the elf closer. "Nothing I can say will change your mind," he murmured. "Not at this moment, anyway. But remember that the grief will pass. It will hurt less, over time. Do not give up on me, penneth."

Legolas let out a weak laugh, and cleared his throat. "I wouldn't dream of it, Mithrandir," he replied. "I wouldn't dare."

Bilbo cleared his throat. "Can I- my Lord- can I do anything?"

Legolas looked up. "I take it you know who I am, then," he said quietly. "Though I suppose it was obvious last night. Even I could tell Adar was worried, and uncaring of who was watching for once." Bilbo nodded, and Legolas smiled weakly. "Thank you, but no. I'm being maudlin, that is all. It will soon pass. And you don't have to use my title. Legolas is fine."

Bilbo nodded again, and took the seat that Gandalf had just vacated. "If you don't mind me saying, begging your pardon, it could have been a lot worse. I know I'm just a hobbit with no experience of this at all, but they're saying that perhaps two-thirds of the orcs of the Misty Mountains are dead. That's quite a feat, at least to a hobbit who understands little of warfare."

Legolas sighed. He bowed his head and breathing heavily for a few seconds before scraping his hair back from his face and looking up. "I'll be alright, Mithrandir," he said wearily. "Just give me a minute. It's been a long morning." He turned to Bilbo. "And yes it is, Master Baggins. But such a thing is difficult to see at the moment, compared to what is right in front of us."

"It's just Bilbo," Bilbo said quickly. "And I suppose it is, if you've only just received all the news. Everyone here has had four days to come to terms with it already, so you must be behind." He stood, brushing off his trousers. "I told Balin I'd be back by lunch," he said to Gandalf. "Farewell for now, Legolas."

"Farewell, Bilbo," Legolas murmured with a smile. The hobbit nodded, began to bow and then thought better of it. He turned and left.

Legolas sighed again, and buried his face in his hands. "I can sense your pity from here, Mithrandir," he said in a low voice. "Do not bother. We chose this, all of us. We knew what the risks were. It's just unpleasant to be reminded of them."

Gandalf held back a disapproving sigh. "Your father has told me already," he said. Legolas huffed a weak laugh.

"I heard," he murmured. "I was still awake for that part. But you know I am right."

This time, Gandalf did heave a long sigh. "It is a matter of perspective," was all that he said. Legolas laughed brokenly, and then ran his hands over his face.

"I apologise for this," he murmured. "Give me a few minutes and it will pass."

"I don't doubt it," Gandalf said, only just keeping the pity and sympathy from his voice. "But there is nothing wrong with grief, Legolas, and you know it. I'm just glad, and I'm sure your father is overjoyed, that you are still here and whole."

Legolas nodded. "I know," he said softly. "I do. But so many others are dead, and many more have died over the centuries. I should know, I've watched it happen a fair amount of times. What can I do, against all of that?"

There came a voice from behind him.

"Legolas."

Legolas turned to see Belhadron swiftly approaching. His face was pale, tear tracks drawing lines down his cheeks. He headed straight for Legolas and dropped to his knees in front of him. "I'm sorry," he rasped, bowing his head. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Legolas. Elbereth, I'm sorry." The words tumbled from his lips, quiet and earnest, his voice now drained of wrath.

"Hey," Legolas said softly. "Hey, it's alright. I forgive you." Gandalf got up and stepped away as Legolas reached out for Belhadron, who was still murmuring apologies, as if he couldn't say anything else. Legolas briefly bowed his head, his shoulders shaking and his hand gripping Belhadron's shoulder. "Belhadron," he said softly. Belhadron looked up and his face crumpled in grief.

"I'm so sorry," he murmured once more in a choked voice, and Legolas pulled him into a tight embrace. Tears were already flowing steadily down his cheeks. This was a soldier's grief, raw and profound, and Gandalf could do nothing but stand witness for a few moments before he turned and walked away.

0-o-0-o-0

Rhavaniel groaned at the flash of pain that throbbed up her arm as she moved, but she was tired of lying down and wanted to sit up, if only for a little while. After some time she managed it without blacking out from pain when she accidentally moved her right arm.

She leant back against the tent post behind her with a gasp, resting her bandaged arm in her lap. Her stomach roiled, but she was fairly practised at not throwing up by this point, and it soon subsided. She let out a sigh.

Her mind was still hazy, thanks to a combination of fatigue, pain and the draughts the healers kept giving her. It didn't mean she couldn't understand what was going on, but it made it a little unpredictable each time she woke up.

This evening she felt rather detached, and a world away from the sharp and brittle feeling of this morning. Seeing Belhadron and Legolas alive and mostly whole, that had helped. She'd been worried for them, when her mind had been clear enough to realise that they were not there.

Grief had always been a funny thing, she thought, tugging with one hand at the blankets pooled around her waist. Sometimes it was as if she could barely move with the crushing weight of all the dead, and sometimes their names were statements in their mind and nothing more.

"Thenidon and Carandor are dead," she murmured to herself, trying the words out. They had no impact at all beyond the simple statement, no tearing punch through her throat like this morning when she'd choked on the words with Legolas and Belhadron in front of her, wrapped in their own grief like her grey cloak, so easy to become hidden behind.

It was strange. The words were the same, but nothing else. There was nothing attached, nothing but the fact that had become lodged in her mind. She knew if she probed further, if she pushed through the slight haze draped over her mind then she'd shatter once more, so she stayed away and let her grief be.

There was a timid knock on the post outside the tent, and then Bilbo, of all people, looked in. Rhavaniel smiled softly. "Master Baggins," she said, her voice rasping in her throat. "You can come in, if you would like."

Bilbo ducked his head and then pushed his way in. "Rhavaniel," he said in greetings. "I thought you might want some company."

"I would very much like company," Rhavaniel replied, glad that her mind was relatively clear at the moment and she was actually able to respond to him. "But surely you have elsewhere to be?"

Bilbo shrugged, coming to sit in the chair beside her bed. "I am not a Dwarf," he said. "And their grief is strange and foreign to me. Besides, I need to walk around a little, at least, or I will surely get restless." He smiled weakly, sticking his hands in the pockets of his waistcoat. "I don't have a lot to do."

"Then keep me company," Rhavaniel said. "For I cannot do anything, and I would rather like a distraction. We make a good pairing, for the moment."

Bilbo ducked his head. "How- how are you?" he asked. "Legolas said you were badly wounded."

"Define badly," Rhavaniel replied. She looked pointedly down at her arm. "It is held together by scabs and sutures, at the moment," she said quietly. "It was not life-threatening, not after the healers got to me, apparently, but life-threatening is not the only definition of bad."

Bilbo worried his lip between his teeth. "Are you- can you… will you still be able to…"

"Fight?" asked Rhavaniel. She was surprised how steady her voice was as she said it. She shrugged, and then let out a small moan as the move jostled her arm. She doubled over, fighting the urge to curl up on the bed, and panted through the pain.

Bilbo was on his feet, and hovering by the side of the bed. "Are you...are you alright? I mean, you're obviously not alright, but…can I do anything? Do you want me to get, I don't know, one of the healers? Or Legolas? He's around, I saw him earlier. Or maybe-"

Rhavaniel raised one hand and cut him off. She hissed through clenched teeth, and straightened up. "I'm fine," she said hoarsely. "Well, I'm not, but it will do for now. As I said, my arm is held together by scabs and sutures. It'll take a while to heal."

Bilbo looked as if he wanted to ask Rhavaniel again, about her arm, but was too polite or too shy. Rhavaniel sighed. "The…the tendons," she said softly. "In my arm. And the muscles. Probably the nerves as well, but it's too early to tell." She tucked a lock of hair behind one ear, and then consciously dropped her hand. If Belhadron could see her now, he'd level her with that fond yet exasperated look she knew so well. That movement was her only little tell that she couldn't quite get rid of. He knew it, and so constantly teased her over it.

She realised that she'd been quiet for too long. She coughed quietly, taking care not to move her body. "The blade damaged all of them," she rasped. "And the poison on it did more. They- the healers, they don't know, but I really doubt it'll ever fully heal. Maybe somewhat. I don't know." Her good hand shook, trembling slightly despite her best efforts to keep it still.

Bilbo nodded slowly. "I'm sorry," he said softly. Rhavaniel laughed slightly, and then winced at the movement.

"It's not your fault," she replied. "It's not mine, either. This was war. It happens."

"But…" Bilbo trailed off. He wanted to say that it didn't have to happen, that Rhavaniel didn't deserve it, but he didn't think that would mean anything to her other than making him look even more naïve.

Rhavaniel nodded. "How are you?" she asked, in a fairly obvious change of the subject at hand. "You were unhurt in the battle?"

"I was knocked out," Bilbo said sheepishly, ducking his head. "Just after the Eagles arrived. So I actually missed most of the fighting." He rubbed at the back of his head, where there was still a little lump. "I've got a hard head, though. I was fine."

"There's no shame in it," Rhavaniel said softly. Bilbo looked up at her, surprised, and a smile tugged at her lips. She hadn't met someone who was so innocent, who was not a warrior or even aware of the constant danger and threat hovering over them all, and it was refreshing to speak with someone who was not trained into a weapon.

"In what?" Bilbo asked.

"Being afraid," Rhavaniel replied, voice rasping. "Feeling grief over their deaths." She sighed. "I've known elves who have lost so much that they've stopped caring. They just stopped, because what was one more person when they'd already lost so many?" She breathed deeply. "None of them lived for very long once that happened, dying in battle fairly soon. They'd stopped caring about their own lives, you see, along with everyone else's."

"I'm sorry," Bilbo said again, sounding a little shocked.

"As am I," Rhavaniel rasped. "But my point was that feeling grief, or anger, or whatever it is you do feel, will always be far better than that. You are kind, Master Baggins. I should know; my job is to read people and find out who they are." Her voice softened and fell away, her gaze drifting past Bilbo. "Perhaps your kindness will do more than all of our blades, in the end."

Bilbo ducked his head. "It seems very little compared to all of your skill," he replied. "But Thorin…Thorin said the same thing to me, just before…" He broke off, gulping. "Before he died."

"I am sorry," Rhavaniel said. "You cared deeply for Thorin, and Fili and Kili. I know it appears that we care little for Dwarves, and that, I suppose, is true in some ways. But they were still good people, and they died, and whatever the elves may think does nothing to change your own thoughts. As I said, there is no shame in grief over that."

Bilbo wiped at his eyes. "I know," he murmured. He looked up. "So why does this…animosity exist between your people and the Dwarves? Didn't you fight together, here, in the end?"

Rhavaniel sighed. She could feel herself growing tired once more, the pain flaring up in her arm. "It is a very long story, and Mithrandir would be much better suited to answering it," she replied. "Suffice it to say that it all happened a very long time ago, and is deeply ingrained in a lot of us. If you've been taught something for your entire life, then it is very difficult to realise anything else."

Bilbo nodded. "I get that," he replied. "I see it back home. It's not the same, us hobbits have no enemies, but I know some people who are brought up to believe they are entitled to anything they want, and then can't understand when people don't want to give it." The Sackville-Bagginses jumped to his mind immediately. Rhavaniel actually laughed, if weakly.

She moved, trying to get a little comfortable, and with no warning something in her arm suddenly twisted. Rhavaniel gasped, doubling forwards again as she squeezed her eyes shut against the pulsing tendrils of pain creeping up from her arm. She briefly heard, over the storm in her own head, a sudden clattering and a worried exclamation. She grabbed onto the sound and pulled herself out with it, focusing on what she realised was Bilbo's voice.

Gradually the words themselves filtered back into her mind, and she drew in a deep breath, forcing her jaw to soften. With her good hand, she wiped away the tears now drying on her cheeks, and looked up.

Bilbo was watching her worriedly, but what made her pause in surprise, momentarily forgetting the throb of her arm, was that he was crouched on the floor, surrounded by large seeds. "Are you alright?" he asked, hands still sweeping up the seeds as he watched her. "Well, I know that is a stupid question again, but…are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Rhavaniel said with a weak smile. "As much as can be at the moment." She looked down at where Bilbo was scooping up handfuls of seeds and pouring them back into a cup to one side. "What happened?"

"Oh, I knocked over the pot when I stood up rather quickly," Bilbo said sheepishly. He scooped up another handful of seeds. "What are these, anyway?"

"I don't know the name," Rhavaniel said. "But the seeds are used by the healers a lot for something or another." She growled in frustration, and rubbed her forehead. "I do know what they do," she muttered. "I do. I just can't remember." Every time she grasped at the thought pain buzzed through her mind and the thought dissolved away into grey tatters of consciousness.

"It doesn't matter," Bilbo said quickly, scraping together the last of the seeds and picking them up. He placed the pot back up on the side, and picked one of the seeds out, rolling it between his fingers. "They're strange," he said. "I have a bit of a garden back home, and they're not like any plants I've ever seen before. But then I suppose I mostly have flowers around, and not much else."

"Take it," Rhavaniel said. She nodded at the seed in Bilbo's hand. "Take it back with you to the Shire, if you wish. Plant it in your garden, with all of your flowers."

Bilbo looked up. "I will," he said, and was surprised to find his voice suddenly hoarse, with the pricks of tears behind his eyes. He pocketed the seed, rubbing his finger over the coarse husk once again before leaving it. He didn't once think of the ring sitting in the other pocket of his now tattered waistcoat.

"Your Shire," Rhavaniel murmured. "What is it like?"

Bilbo paused. He could tell that Rhavaniel was tiring, her words slurring slightly. Her gaze didn't quite seem to be able to focus on him, drifting beyond him every few seconds.

He shrugged. "It's home," he said softly. "But I suppose you want a better description than that." He sought for the right words. "It's green," he said. "That's the first thing I can think of when seeing it. The Shire is all meadows and rolling hills, and in summer everything is green. Apart from the flowers, of course. Us hobbits love anything that grows, and we care greatly for our gardens."

"Where do you live?" Rhavaniel asked in a tiring voice, and Bilbo began to describe his hobbit hole, his books and armchairs and Hobbiton, the Green Dragon and the walks he took through the woods nearby. After a few minutes Rhavaniel shifted to lie back down on her bed. It took her a little while, carefully not moving her arm, and Bilbo up and pulled the blankets back over her without breaking off from one of his tales.

He kept talking long after Rhavaniel fell asleep, the lines of pain smoothing out on her face. He went from describing the Shire to tales and stories of his life there, the first time he ever saw Gandalf as a child and his fireworks, the better parts of his journey with Thorin and the others and anything else he could think of.

The tent flap rustled and then Belhadron ducked in. He started upon seeing Bilbo, who trailed off in the midst of a story about pies, of all things. "Master Baggins," he said slowly, reining in his surprise. "You do not…have to be here."

Bilbo shrugged. "It seemed like Rhavaniel needed some company," he said. Belhadron's gaze darkened, and he quickly held up one hand. "I'm not blaming you, captain," he said. "I know you've been busy with everything, and cannot just abandon your duties to sit with your friend, as much as you may want to. Seeing as I have nothing to do, I thought the least I could do to repay you all for your kindness was to sit with her, even if I barely know her."

Belhadron's gaze softened, ever so slightly, and he nodded. He crossed the tent and came to crouch beside the bed, pressing the back of his hand to Rhavaniel's forehead. Rhavaniel frowned slightly, mumbling under her breath, and Belhadron smoothed his thumb down her cheek with a few murmured words.

"She'll be alright, won't she?" Bilbo asked as Belhadron checked over Rhavaniel, despite not being a healer and not knowing much beyond the basic battlefield medicine he'd picked up over the centuries.

Belhadron nodded. "She is tough," he said, smoothing back a lock of hair from Rhavaniel's face. Normally if he tried to do this she would bend his fingers back until they were nearly breaking, with a laugh as she did so. Now, she didn't even stir.

"It will be…hard," he said. "The damage is…" He trailed off. "I cannot have the words for it. It is bad. She will maybe have all the hand. I don't know."

"She said so," Bilbo replied, once he'd figured out what Belhadron meant. "That the damage was extensive. That she might not…might not fully heal." Belhadron nodded, lips pressed together in a thin line.

"I know," he said, his voice barely more than a growl, and Bilbo kept himself from shrinking back at the sudden coil of anger in the elf, like a large dog baring its teeth and ready to strike out. Belhadron seemed to feel it, and took a deep breath. He forced himself to relax, pushing the tension out of his muscles to leave a hollow ache of grief behind.

"Thank you, Master Baggins," he said. "For this."

Bilbo waved one hand. "It's the least I can do," he replied. He got to his feet. "I am glad to see you well enough, Belhadron," he said sincerely. "And Legolas. You are good people, and I am glad you're still here."

Belhadron snorted, moving to sit on the floor against Rhavaniel's bed. "Good people?" he asked. "Legolas is, but me? Not so much."

"I do beg to differ," Bilbo said quickly. Belhadron looked at him blankly, not understanding. "You are wrong," Bilbo amended. "You wouldn't be here worrying over your friend if you weren't a good person. I don't think you'd be so highly valued by your King, and Legolas of course, if you weren't. I really don't think you'd still be here if you had stopped caring."

Belhadron huffed, but it was with a weak smile. "My thanks," he murmured. Bilbo nodded, and then left the tent. He paused in the doorway and looked back. Belhadron didn't even seem aware of him. As Bilbo watched for a few silent seconds Belhadron gently grasped Rhavaniel's good hand and bowed his head, shoulders beginning to shake. Bilbo felt an all-too familiar pang in his chest, and turned away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Belhadron really cannot hold a grudge against for Legolas for any length of time at all.
> 
> What I wrote about Rhavaniel not feeling the same grief over her dead friends is something I've experienced. A close friend and mentor of mine died last year, and even just days after her death, there were moments where I could state clearly, whether in my mind or out loud, that she was dead and it was fact and nothing more. And then there were moments where I'd just think about it and break down into tears. I suppose it was a way of coping- separating the fact from the emotions- and I've always remembered how strange it was- how our minds can do that to try and spare us from the grief, if only for a little while.
> 
> Comments or kudos always make me very happy.


	26. In This Bloody Soil

"How are you doing?"

Belhadron looked up, his hands not stopping as he did up another buckle on Legolas' armour. He shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "If I think about it for too long, I won't stop thinking about it at all, and we both know that's just a terrible idea." He turned away, picking up the metal plates that would sit across Legolas' shoulders.

Legolas huffed the barest of laughs under his breath, and obligingly slid on the metal plates. Belhadron pulled them into place and then stepped behind him to do up the buckles. "We'll be leaving tomorrow," he said. "And then going home."

"Back to everyone else," Belhadron murmured, moving onto another buckle. He tugged at it and Legolas swayed slightly. "It won't be the same."

"I know," Legolas murmured. He didn't have anything else to say, nothing yet. The grief was still far too near, and would be for some time. Belhadron sighed, and finished tightening the last buckle. He was already dressed in his armour, plates shifting over his shoulders as he tugged Legolas' armour into place, checking it one last time. It was the morning of Thorin's funeral.

"Are we ready?" Legolas asked. Belhadron nodded and picked up his sword. Legolas sheathed one of his knives in his belt, foregoing his quiver.

"Cloak," Belhadron reminded Legolas, reaching for his own dark green cloak, one not ripped or muddy that he'd borrowed from Legolas. He slung it over his shoulders and fastened it. Before Legolas had finished doing up one of his vambraces that was loose, Belhadron had picked up his cloak for him. It was a heavy thing, deep green cloth with white fur settled around the throat and shoulders. Belhadron swung it over Legolas' shoulders and fastened it.

They were silent for a moment. Legolas reached past Belhadron to open a small wooden box, from which he pulled out a thin bronze and copper circlet, white gems settled in amongst the entwined leaves, the crown of the Prince of the Woodland Realm. He put it on, his blond hair falling loose around his shoulders.

He still looked dangerous, with his armour and his blade at his belt, the scrapes down one side of his face and a grief slowly burning into anger simmering within, but as he straightened, white fur over his shoulders and crown on his head, he bore his title with grace.

Belhadron looked at him, and then dropped down onto one knee. "My Prince," he murmured. Legolas held out a hand and Belhadron took it, rising to his feet. With a soft smile, Legolas pulled him in for a brief embrace. They went out into the chill morning air, and the people in the camp parted for them as they went.

Thranduil was standing at the edge of the camp, talking to Bard. Already the thirty elves were gathered with the other two captains nearby, and Bard's men were slowly filtering in. Thranduil looked every inch the fey King of the Woodland Realm in his armour and crown, silver and red-lined cloak snapping around his heels in the chill wind.

Bard, in his own armour with a navy cloak draped around his shoulders, looked over, and momentarily looked surprised upon seeing Legolas, who was bearing his title for the first time he'd ever seen. In the next few seconds he schooled his features and turned to his men. Finally they were ready, and they began to head for the mountain, Thranduil walking next to Bard, their companies falling in behind them. Legolas took his customary place at his father's left hand side, with Belhadron at his own shoulder.

They entered Erebor, passing by Dain's Dwarves standing guard at the entrance. Legolas refrained from looking up at the ceiling high above, the veins of gold running through the pillars. He'd seen Erebor before, if hundreds of years ago on a barely diplomatic visit, and though it was impressive he couldn't help the uneasy feeling of so much stone around him.

Bard was unable to have the same refrain, and Legolas heard a soft gasp from him and many of his men as they stepped over the threshold. He supposed that the even those elves who have never seen Erebor were used to their great halls back home, where Bard and his men had spent their lives living in a wooden town on the shores of a lake. They were unused to such finery, such a display of ancient wealth.

Dain was waiting for them, with all the gravity of a King in his own kingdom despite the crown not yet sitting on his head. Thranduil inclined his head a fraction, Bard actually nodded in greeting, and Dain appeared to bite back a comment and led the way deep into Erebor.

Legolas felt Belhadron move slightly closer to his shoulder as they strode deeper into the mountain, uneasy as they passed by lines of Dwarves standing guard with axes in their hands. Thranduil strode forwards, uncaring of the looks from the Dwarves at his presence there, and Bard walked tall by his side.

They reached another great hall and here lay Thorin Oakenshield and his nephews, resplendent in death. Dwarves lined the hall, and Thranduil and Bard took their own places next to Dain, their peoples moving to the empty places left for them. Legolas stayed at Thranduil's shoulder, Belhadron at his, standing in front of Thorin's tomb.

Gandalf stepped forwards and began to speak, voice echoing through the great hall. After him Dain spoke, and then many of Thorin's companions. One looked to Bilbo after they finished, but the hobbit, in tears, shook his head and didn't step forwards.

Bard stepped forwards, taking a small box from one of his captains. He opened it and pulled forth the Arkenstone. A silence spread through the hall.

"It belongs to Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain," Bard said in a loud voice as he placed the Arkenstone in Thorin's cold hands. "And it shall rest with Thorin Oakenshield from now, until the end of time. May the Heart of the Mountain remain with the King forevermore."

Bard stepped back, bowing deeply to Thorin, and then bowing again to the twin tombs of Fili and Kili. This was not the time for grievances or bad blood between races. Dain and some Dwarves came forwards and they lifted the great stone slabs to one side of each tomb. A slow, steady chant began around the hall from the Dwarves, the sound rolling and building and echoing through the stone halls of Erebor as the stones slid over the tombs of Thorin Oakenshield, of Fili and Kili, sealing their bodies in stone, under their mountain, finally home.

Bilbo was crying silently, as were all of Thorin's companions and many other Dwarves. The chant grew louder, swelling and rolling through the hall like a growing wave, pushed from all sides, and then as the great slabs finally slid into place the Dwarves clashed their axes against their mail in one great shout.

Gradually, silence reclaimed the hall. Out of it Thranduil stepped forwards. He pulled a sheathed sword from his belt and Thorin's companions looked on in amazement as they recognised Orcrist in his hands.

Thranduil unsheathed the sword in one swift movement, and then carefully placed Orcrist on Thorin's tomb, the scabbard underneath it. He spoke a few murmured words under his breath. The might of the elves had long since passed, but he could still do this.

The sword flashed, the steel bright in the darkness of the great hall. White light fractured on the great stone pillars and the gold veins spun through the rock, and rebounded across the hall. Thranduil ran one hand down the length of the blade and slowly the light dimmed until the sword barely had a glimmer to its edges. Thranduil stepped back once more, silent.

"Farewell, sons of Durin!" Gandalf cried out in a great voice. "Farewell Thorin Oakenshield, farewell Fili and Kili! May you find peace, after death." He bowed his head, and then every person in the hall veined with gold bowed their heads in silence.

0-o-0-o-0

They left Erebor, Bard leading his men and Thranduil his elves out back into the winter sunshine. The elves breathed in deeply as soon as they crossed the threshold, relishing in the freedom of no longer standing underneath miles of mountain.

Thranduil paused just outside Erebor, waiting for his elves to gather. Legolas was already with him, talking to Belhadron in a low voice. Bard came to stand beside him. "So that is it," he murmured. "We are done."

"We are done," Thranduil confirmed. He watched as Gandalf came outside with Bilbo and they made their way over to them. "Now we must just face everything that is still to come without breaking any further."

Bilbo looked up at the words he heard, and his heart twisted even further at the bleak tone. He thought back to everything he'd heard the people in front of him say over the days, Legolas' grief and Thranduil's broken spirit and Bard's terror at what was to come. He stuttered to a stop and his hand went to his pocket as an idea began to form in his mind.

"Bilbo," Gandalf called over his shoulder as they began to walk away. "Are you coming?"

"Wait," Bilbo said suddenly. "All of you." Thranduil stopped and turned, looking mildly interested. Bard raised his eyebrows, and Legolas just looked tired. Belhadron shrugged, and waited merely because Legolas wasn't moving.

"What is it?" asked Gandalf, and it seemed he had some idea of what Bilbo was about to do next, for he smiled and nodded slightly. Bilbo squared his shoulders.

"I'm only a hobbit," he said. "I'm not a King, or a Prince, or a leader. I'm not even a fighter. I'm just a hobbit, and I'm nothing special, but even I know that things like this don't heal overnight. But, and maybe it's because I am none of those things that I can say this, you are all wrong." His bright gaze passed over all of them, and for a moment it was as if he could see all their scars laid bare, all their sleepless nights and old wounds that had never fully healed. Bilbo squared his shoulders.

"You think that there are no choices left," he said. "Or that the things left to do are too big and too scary to even think about risking yourself for, or that you are just too small to do anything against all of this horrible darkness and the threat I don't think I can ever really understand." Gandalf, standing beside him, nodded at what he was saying, and Bilbo felt another surge of courage.

He pulled out the seed that had sat in his pocket from yesterday. "Rhavaniel told me to take this home," he said, holding it up. His gaze flickered to Legolas and Belhadron, whose grief became etched more heavily on their faces at the mention of their friend. Bilbo pulled himself up straighter. "She told me to plant it in my garden. And I mean no disrespect to her, but I'm going to do something different."

He dropped down to one knee and dug a small hole with his hands in the dirt, cold and black with dried blood. "What are you doing?" Bard asked. Bilbo looked up.

"I'm planting this," he said, holding up the seed again. "Right here, in this bloody soil." Bilbo dropped the seed into the hole, and scraped the soil back over it. "I know it may seem foolish," he said, levelling a look at Thranduil, "but it is my choice." He looked over at Bard, and then at Legolas beside him. "It is my responsibility to take," he said. "And it is small, but it is something. It is something to keep fighting back, in whatever way I can find."

All of them were looking down at him now, their expressions unreadable. Only Gandalf was smiling softly to himself. Bilbo patted the cold earth over the seed. "After all," he said, standing to face them. "When having passed through all of this, when facing everything else that is still to come, what can any of us do? We go on living."

There was silence, and Bilbo squared his shoulders as he looked up at them. To his surprise, Legolas was smiling ever so slightly, the corners of his mouth curling. Belhadron's face had softened, his normally fey expression fading and making him look so much younger. Bard swallowed heavily, looking close to tears.

Thranduil, as ever, was unreadable, but it was him that broke the silence first. "Master Baggins," he said, and he sounded impressed. "It may be that you are braver than us all, in the end."

0-o-0-o-0

Thranduil watched the fire in front of him. He stood in the entrance to his tent, wine glass in hand. Beyond him the camp was dark and quiet. The logs around the fire were empty. He sighed, tipping his head back and swallowing the last dregs of wine in his glass, and tried not to wonder how they'd all come here. If he thought about it for too long, he was sure he wouldn't have any answers anymore.

"You're thinking again."

Thranduil bit back a grin as he turned to see Gandalf approaching. "The Valar forbid that I think," he said. "What is it, Mithrandir?"

"I cannot merely come to speak with my old friend?" asked Gandalf, seeming disappointed that the glass in Thranduil's hand was empty. Thranduil raised one eyebrow, and Gandalf huffed. "Fair enough."

"We leave tomorrow," Thranduil said. He looked out over the dark camp. He was still wearing his scarlet cloak, though he'd discarded his armour and crown, and in the torchlight it looked nearly black. "Are we done yet, Mithrandir?" he asked. He laughed bitterly. "Nobody ever seems to realise that the King wants to go home as much as everyone else."

Gandalf nodded. "I know," he said. Thranduil looked pointedly at him. "Fine, I don't," he grumbled. "But we are not having this discussion again, not now. I understand what you mean, even if our perspectives are so vastly different that I cannot truly know. I am not, and will never be, a King."

Thranduil let out a deep breath. "And I will never have your freedom," he murmured. "Nor your wisdom, Mithrandir, even if I sometimes call it other names."

Gandalf laughed roughly. He made to say something, but then looked over Thranduil's shoulder and changed his mind. Thranduil turned, and Gandalf actually saw his whole body relax as he saw Legolas approaching. Gandalf sometimes forgot how much the stern and cold Elvenking loved his son. The past few days had been a poignant reminder.

Thranduil reached for Legolas, and pulled him close with an arm around his shoulders. "Greenleaf," he said softly, pressing a kiss to Legolas' forehead. "Better now?"

Legolas nodded, allowing himself a brief moment to lean against his father. Gandalf gathered that Thranduil had spent time talking with him at some point earlier as the two of them spoke softly for a few minutes. He found a small smile on his lips as he watched the two of them.

Thranduil cleared his throat, and looked back at Gandalf. "What are you smiling at, Mithrandir?" he asked, the dry tone of his voice rather spoiled by his own smile, and the way his hand tightened on Legolas' shoulder and kept him close.

Gandalf laughed. "I am just glad to see you whole, Legolas," he replied. "And you of course, Thranduil." Thranduil merely smiled wryly. It was only for a few brief moments, a snatched part of time, but for these few minutes the heavy weights lying over them seemed to lift.

Thranduil turned to Gandalf. "Perhaps I have been too harsh on you, Mithrandir," he said softly. Next to him Legolas huffed a laugh, leaning a little into Thranduil, who merely tightened his hold on him. "Perhaps I have been blinded to certain things for too long," Thranduil said. "Forgive me for that, if you can."

Gandalf inclined his head. "I have been just as harsh to you," he replied. "But I forgive you, old friend. As if I would ever do anything else."

The night wore on, and for the last time the captains, those left, gathered around the great fire. Legolas left his father and joined them as they talked quietly with the beginnings of smiles on their faces. The grief was beginning to weigh less heavily on them for now.

Maedir reached out for a bottle of wine that was warming by the fire. He poured out four cups. "To Thenidon," he said, handing out the cups and raising his own. "To Carandor. To all those we've lost."

They raised their cups, echoing his words, and then drank. Belhadron drained the cup and then set it down with a sigh. He looked over into the darkness, away from the fire.

Suddenly he jumped to his feet, nearly knocking Legolas' cup from his hand. The others started, hands going to weapons, but as soon as they followed Belhadron's gaze they relaxed, smiles breaking out on their faces.

Rhavaniel, leaning heavily on one of the healers, stumbled towards the fire. Her right arm was completely immobilised, heavily bandaged and bound tightly to her chest. "I said this wasn't a particularly good idea," the healer said, sounding resigned. "But she insisted."

"I did," murmured Rhavaniel, grinning weakly as the healer settled her in front of the fire. Belhadron sat back down and shifted so she was leant back against his legs, several cloaks wrapped around her. The healer crouched in front of her, checking her once again, before relinquishing her to the captains.

Rhavaniel settled back against Belhadron's legs, her face white but a weak smile there nonetheless. "If this is our last night here," she murmured. "I am not spending all of it in a tent."

Legolas laughed softly, and Alassien moved to sit on the floor opposite Rhavaniel, talking to her with a smile. As the moon slowly moved across the sky they fell to talking softly about what was to come now and what was far behind them. Bilbo turned up late into the night and sat with them, listening in to the captains telling stories of Thenidon and Carandor, of the other elves under their command that they'd lost, and the twist in his chest, the ache there, lessened as he listened.

There were gaps in the group, empty spaces where people should have been sitting, an empty spot in front of the fire where there should have been a dog lying to soak up the heat. Nobody touched the discarded cooking pot lying to one side. Bilbo found himself watching the spaces and the others did too, as if just waiting for someone to step out of the shadows and sit down as they had done a few days ago. But the shadows remained still, and the gaps remained empty.

Legolas leant back against one of the logs in front of the fire, tipping his head back to look up the night sky. He had forgotten to take his circlet off, and the copper and bronze glinted in the firelight, the light rebounding off the entwined metal of the crown and his blond hair until he appeared wreathed in light, an image from tales long since lost by the writers of history.

Maedir was holding onto his cup so tightly Bilbo thought he would break it. Reaching over, Alassien gently pried it from his hands, and distracted him with idle talk for a little while. Rhavaniel spoke when she was lucid enough to follow the conversation, and she didn't move from where she was leant against Belhadron's legs. At one point Belhadron leant forwards and draped his arms over her shoulders where she was sat in a loose embrace, as if the blankets weren't enough to keep her warm.

Over the night some elves dropped by to speak with them, those from their companies and Thenidon and Carandor's companies staying a little while. But for the most part it was the five of them and Bilbo, who was sitting almost forgotten by the fire, listening to their stories.

He couldn't tell which one of them was the first to start singing. It may have been Alassien as she fed more logs onto the fire, the crackling of orange flames masking her soft lilt of her voice. Or it may have been Belhadron, murmuring the words quietly to Rhavaniel as she dozed against him, the melody echoing deep in his chest and the sound creeping out into the night, reaching tenderly towards the empty spaces between them.

But words soon started to form from the strands being woven together in the darkness and then they were singing, half-forgotten laments in grief and remembrance, and Bilbo found himself weeping silently as he listened, even though he didn't understand the words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the scene with Bilbo talking to everyone was heavily inspired, and borrowed some, from a cut scene in BoTFA. I disagreed with certain parts of those films, but that scene, when I first saw it, nearly made me cry and for me, represented the parts of the films that I really did love (I still have a deep and abiding love for Peter Jackson and the LOTR films, as well as all of the cast in both trilogies).
> 
> I would urge all of you to watch this scene if you haven't seen it already- just type into Youtube 'Bilbo planting his acorn in Dale scene' and you should be fine. I hope it hasn't come across as overly sentimental or foolish, but I felt there had to be a turning point for the characters, something that got them started towards healing, coming back from the grief and the pain. And it couldn't be anybody but Bilbo who prompted this, because he is the main character of the story, he is the point around which so much revolves. So I hope it worked.
> 
> Only a few more chapters to go now! As always, comments and kudos make my day.


	27. Anymore of our Lives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for this one being so short! I really wanted to finish a chapter on this scene, but also on the scene at the end of last chapter, hence this happening. Also, there's some swear words at the end of this chapter, just fyi.

Bard stood a little ways out of the camp, watching the sun slowly rise over the eastern horizon. The snow on Erebor burnt gold as the dawn slowly arrived. Behind him the camp had awoken. Already the elves and men were dismantling tents and stowing them, ready to leave. They'd come to it at last.

Bard sighed, the breath misting in front of his face in the cold. The moment of silence stretched on in front of him, broken only by the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. For a moment, he wished it could remain like this forever, that he could remain with just the snow and the bare rocks surrounding him.

In the next moment he saw the graves off to one side out of the corner of his eye, the blackened areas where they had built pyres for the dead, and he knew without a doubt, at least at this moment, that he would turn around and lead his men back home and stay there, in whatever position he needed to be in. He owed it to those who had died. He knew that now. His own terror was nothing compared to what they gave up.

There was the slight noise from behind him, and Bard turned to see, of all people, Belhadron approaching. The elf nodded briefly at him. "My King wants to see you," he said, clearly trying to not trip over the words.

"About what?" Bard asked, looking over at Belhadron. Belhadron shrugged. He turned to stand next to Bard, looking out over the valley in front of them. Still there were some orcs lying scattered across the cold ground, not yet burned in the great fires further into the valley. Belhadron seemed to gaze at them impassively, and Bard watched him from his side.

"You didn't like me much, did you?" he asked abruptly. To his surprise, Belhadron barked a short laugh.

"I did not trust you," he said, the accent heavy on his tongue. "There is difference. You had weight on shoulders, and I did not know what you would do with it. I did not trust that."

"And now?"

Belhadron turned to look at Bard, and again surprised him with the wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He shrugged. "Close enough," was all that he said. Bard laughed, and nodded.

"Oh, I almost forgot," he said as he made to step away. His hand went to his belt. "You probably want this."

Belhadron turned, and was actually surprised to see one of Legolas' long knives in Bard's hand. "One of my men found it yesterday on the battlefield and recognised it," Bard said, holding the knife out to Belhadron. "It's not damaged, I checked." He wondered what Belhadron's reaction would be. The last time he'd gone to pick up one of Legolas' knives, the elf had stopped him before he'd even touched it.

Belhadron went to reach out for the knife, and then suddenly thought better of it. "Legolas is with the King," he said. "Give it to him." He studied Bard intently for a moment, so much so that Bard felt like stepping back a bit, and his hand twitched for a weapon.

"Thank you."

Bard blinked. He had not been expecting that. "What?"

A smile tugged at Belhadron's lips. "Thank you," he repeated. "For everything." He turned away and stalked back towards the camp. Bard watched him leave.

He turned back towards Erebor for perhaps the last time. There was an orc lying a little ways from him and he walked towards it steadily. Bard held back a fey laugh in his throat as he finally stood over the felled orc, sprawled with sightless eyes in dark blood. He crouched down.

"You bastards," he said. He looked up, eyes tracking up the valley and across the bloody rocks where his men were cut down and yet still triumphed, and this time he did bark out a short laugh, rough in his throat.

"I win," he said to the dead orc in front of him. "I win, you bastards. So fuck you. You're not getting any more of our lives." He stood, and turned and walked away without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was so cathartic, writing that for Bard- I couldn't think of better words to use.


	28. The Long March Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the second to last chapter! Gandalf's final appearance is here, as well as Rhavaniel's. I do have plans for a sequel of sorts- a series of interconnected oneshots that follow this story- but depending on school and exams, I don't quite know when they will be written and published.

And so they left Erebor behind and began the long march home. Bilbo twisted in the saddle and watched as the ten figures, the ten Dwarves he’d come to love that stood silhouetted against the midday sun slowly dwindled and disappeared from view. He wiped at the tears spilling down his cheeks.

“I’ll come back,” he promised himself, promised all of those he’d left behind in that mountain, even if they couldn’t hear him anymore.

“I’m sure you will,” Gandalf said from beside him. “You have plenty of time to do such things, now the east is a safer place.”

Bilbo sighed. “After seeing all of this,” he said. “Everything I’ve done… I don’t think the Shire is going to be big enough anymore. But for now, I’m content to go home.”

Gandalf laughed roughly. “I think we all are,” he replied, looking across at where Thranduil rode at the head of his elves, Legolas riding to one side and talking softly with him. The other captains were arrayed behind them. Belhadron had Rhavaniel seated in front of him, asleep in his arms. Beorn was striding beside Gandalf, and Belhadron had taken his mare as far away from the skinchanger as possible after she’d shied and nearly unseated both of them.

It took them six days to reach the shores of the Long Lake, six days of trudging through the same bare rocks as Erebor slowly grew smaller behind them. On the way from Laketown to Erebor Bilbo had been caught up in the adventure, in anticipation and nervousness of what was to come. Now all he stared at was blank grey plains, and the journey seemed so much longer when all he could think about was what had happened.

It didn’t seem like he was the only one thinking this. Bard was quiet for most of the journey, a frown furrowing his brow as he rode ahead of his men. The elves were silent, but Bilbo guessed that it was training as much as anything else that kept them quiet. Bard’s men spent a surprising amount of time, from what Bilbo saw, walking backwards or trying to walk forwards and look back at Erebor at the same time, until the valley where their friends had died was finally out of sight and they didn’t look back again, subdued and quiet.

Bilbo didn’t remember much of the journey itself, save for it being cold and damp. Finally, though, they crested a rise and the Long Lake was in front of him, and he nearly sobbed in relief. Beside him Bard’s face had lit up with a fiery determination as the makeshift settlement came into view and he pushed his horse forwards, his men eagerly following.

Bilbo watched, hanging back with Thranduil and Gandalf, as the people of Laketown began to emerge, at first cautiously and then rushing out towards Bard and his men as they approached. Gandalf chuckled to himself as a child pulled away from their mother and ran for one of the men, screaming in delight and launching themselves into his arms. Elsewhere families were reuniting, parents with their children, husbands with their wives. But for every child screaming in delight, there was another standing looking confused. For every family reunited there were others standing still, watching every face as they moved past them to someone else.

A young woman screamed, falling to her knees in the mud. A man crouched down next to her and tried to comfort her, but she pushed him away with a shout, sending him sprawling. Bilbo winced, and even Gandalf looked a little sorrowful as he watched.

Thranduil watched impassively, before turning and issuing commands for the elves to establish their own camp for the night. Bilbo watched him as someone else wailed, an old man grabbing hold of who was probably his wife as if she was the only thing keeping him upright. Thranduil didn’t even look over at them.

From the beginning this had been inevitable, and Thranduil had long since grown used to the screams.

0-o-0-o-0

By the time the sun sank behind the dark expanse in the west that was Mirkwood, the chaos had subsided and the makeshift settlement, the beginnings of the new Laketown, was quiet once more. Bard was still going from one family to another, speaking with soft tones and haunted eyes. Thranduil was in half a mind to send someone to pull him away before he exhausted himself.

He’d walked up to the rise overlooking the lake and now stood there, watching silently. Even in the dark he could see the people moving about below, healers settling the wounded and tending to them after the march, his elves working still on the settlement. The Master had shown him the plans for the new town that they would be building here, and Thranduil, much as he intensely disliked the man, could already see the skeleton emerging on the lakeshore.

He could see the Master’s building from here, by far the largest in the settlement. A cold curl of disgust settled in him at the thought of the man who wore heavy clothes and finery whilst his people shivered in tatters. Thranduil was rather looking forwards to the Master’s eventual deposition, and the people of Esgaroth kicking him out. And if he proved to be difficult, or try to return, well, there were ways Thranduil could ensure that he was no longer an issue for Bard.

He had no doubt that the people of Esgaroth would turn against the Master, soon enough. The man had been in control when his people had felt small and unimportant, and he’d preyed on that fear. Now they had a leader, someone who had led them into and through a battle, who had the alliance of the formidable Elvenking and even that of the Dwarves, to some extent. They would rally behind Bard quickly enough. Whether or not Bard was willing to lead still, after everything that had happened, was still another question that needed answering.

Thranduil sighed softly, and allowed himself a brief moment to bow his head and shut his eyes. A soft pattering sound reached his ears, and he abruptly straightened, looking around.

Bilbo Baggins suddenly appeared, walking up the slope towards him. Thranduil watched him with narrow eyes as he approached, wondering.

“My Lord!” said Bilbo, a little breathless as he approached. “Gandalf wanted to talk to you. Something about…I don’t know, something complicated, I believe.” Thranduil nodded, and began to walk back towards the camp. Bilbo trotted beside him.

“And how are you doing, Master Baggins?” Thranduil asked.

Bilbo hesitated, mouth open but not saying anything. “I…I don’t know,” he said eventually. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about it all over the past week. I meant what I said, though,” he said suddenly. “After Thorin’s funeral. About…well, all of that, I suppose.”

Thranduil inclined his head. “I never doubted that you didn’t,” he replied. There were a few moments of silence.

“I’m- I am glad that Legolas- I mean, Prince Legolas- is alright,” Bilbo said abruptly. He looked up at the Elvenking. “He seems like a very good person.”

Thranduil briefly wondered if Bilbo was trying to appear more favourable to him by complimenting his son, but discarded the idea fairly quickly. He found a small smile playing on his lips. “He is,” he assured Bilbo, and after considering it for a few seconds, decided that he could let the impassive mask slip for a few moments.

“I believe Mithrandir has already told you, or rather, told Bard whilst in your presence, how much Legolas means to me,” he said. “How did he put it, exactly?”

Bilbo hesitated. “He…he said that he was the one person you put above all else, and told Bard- threatened him, really- that if Bard ever stood between you and your son, you would destroy him for Legolas.” To his surprise, Thranduil laughed.

“Of course he said that,” he said eventually, still chuckling. “He isn’t wrong, though.” He paused. “You will understand if you ever have a family, Master Baggins, if you ever have children. There is nothing I will ever value more than my son.”

He sighed softly, and found himself wondering, even as he spoke, why he was telling this to a small halfling whom he barely knew. “Legolas has a good heart,” he said softly. “Too much heart, I sometimes worry. With our lives, mercy is not always the best quality to value.”

“Really?” asked Bilbo. He looked up at Thranduil. “I always thought that mercy came hand-in-hand with kindness, and I don’t think that’s a bad thing at all. Of course all your blades and skill can do so much more in battle, but Thorin thought, and I’m starting to think too, that maybe it’s not such a bad thing to be kind, in amongst all of this.”

Thranduil looked down at Bilbo, a small frown across his brow. Bilbo gulped, but held his gaze. “There is something about you, Master Baggins,” Thranduil eventually said, voice soft. “Something that I think gives me hope for us all.”

Bilbo laughed. “I’m just a simple hobbit,” he replied. “Who was perhaps in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Thranduil raised one eyebrow. “You are far more than just a simple hobbit, as you put it,” he said. “I think, and Mithrandir would agree with me, that you were exactly where you needed to be, Master Baggins. And I also think I am very grateful for it.” He smiled slightly. “I don’t know if anyone has said this to you, but well done, Master Baggins. Well done.”

0-o-0-o-0

The sky clouded over and a light rain began to fall over the camp. The fires began to spit beneath it, wavering angrily in the dark.

Bard hurried through the drizzle, eyes fixed on the ground lest he slip in the mud beneath his feet. Some people had put dry rushes down in front of the makeshift buildings that they were trying to call home, but the mud still clawed at his feet and sent him slipping.

It was because of this that he nearly collided with one of Thranduil’s captains, hurrying in the opposite direction. The captain grabbed him, keeping him from falling into the very mud he’d been trying to avoid, and after less than a minute of talking to the captain, Bard found himself walking quickly in the direction of Legolas’ tent. He reached it and knocked, before pulling back the flap and ducking in.

Rhavaniel blinked blearily at him from where she was lying on a small cot. Legolas was sat next to her, trying to comb out his wet hair that was dripping on the back of his tunic. “Am I interrupting anything?” Bard asked. He paused suddenly. “Should I call you ‘my Lord’ now?”

Legolas laughed, and Rhavaniel huffed a weak grin from where she was lying on the bed. “You really don’t have to,” Legolas replied. “It’s not that I don’t like my title, but-”

“You don’t like your title,” Rhavaniel murmured, her voice catching in her throat. Legolas laughed again.

“I am my father’s son and proud of it,” he tried to explain to Bard. “But I don’t like people treating me differently because of my title. Anyway, what is it?”

“Alassien wanted you for something on the eastern edge of the camp,” Bard replied. “It seemed-well, not urgent, but you’re needed, I think.” Legolas held back a sigh, and climbed to his feet. He snagged his wet cloak and slung it on.

“Belhadron should be back in a few minutes,” he said in a low voice to Bard. “Would you mind keeping an eye on Rhavaniel until he is? She’s in a lot of pain today and I don’t particularly want to-” He paused. “Just, can you stay with her for a few minutes?”

Bard nodded. “Of course,” he replied, and Legolas flashed him a grateful smile as he slipped out of the tent. Bard wandered over and then sat down beside the small cot. “Not doing brilliantly today?” he asked.

Rhavaniel grimaced. “Not really,” she slurred, twisting on the cot in a futile effort to get comfortable. She winced, and looked over at Bard. “How are you doing?”

Bard blinked. “I don’t think anyone has actually asked me that question for this entire time,” he said. Rhavaniel smiled crookedly.

“Wouldn’t expect so,” she replied. “Nobody thinks about people in charge except for the people in charge. How are you?” She reached out with a fumbling hand and gently tapped his chest. “How’s that anger?”

Bard shrugged. “Honestly, I have no idea,” he replied. “But I know what I’m going to do now. Well, I hope I do.” He laughed slightly, leaning his head back. “I’m not angry anymore. Well, I am, but it’s too tiring and I have other things to do.” If he needed it again, he knew where to find it.

“Not seeking revenge?” Rhavaniel murmured. Bard huffed, and shook his head.

“Got nobody to exact any revenge on,” he replied. Rhavaniel, to his surprise, bit back a laugh.

“That never stopped anyone before,” she said, her voice rasping in her throat. She shifted again, trying to get even a little more comfortable, and bit back a groan as she jostled her arm. Bard twisted around to look at her. “I’m fine,” she murmured, panting slightly through bared teeth at the pain settling deep within her arm.

“Are you?” Bard asked. “Like you said, nobody pays attention to the people in charge.”

Rhavaniel grinned. “I have Belhadron,” she replied. “And Legolas. They’ll keep an eye on me. And I’m not fine, not by a long stretch, but it’ll do for now. I’ll get better.”

Belhadron suddenly ducked into the tent. He didn’t start upon seeing Bard, but eyed him warily and then seemed to decide that he didn’t care. “You need one hand for knife,” he said as he crossed over to Rhavaniel, pressing the back of his hand to her forehead and frowning at the slight heat he felt.

“Only,” Rhavaniel murmured. “Only need one hand for a knife.” She grinned weakly, letting her head fall to rest on Belhadron’s hand. Bard slowly got to his feet.

“Legolas had to go deal with something,” he said to Belhadron, gathering up his sodden cloak and grimacing as he pulled it over his shoulders again. “He should be back soon.” Belhadron nodded his thanks and Bard left, hunching his shoulders against the driving rain that spat into his face as soon as he stepped outside.

“So you trust him now.”

Belhadron grimaced, and turned back to Rhavaniel. “As much as I ever could, I think,” he replied. “There’s still a lot that he could do wrong.”

Rhavaniel snorted. “That’s just an excuse to avoid admitting it, and a poor one at that,” she muttered. “Stop trying to find a way to get out of this. You actually trust him, for a man.”

Belhadron paused, and then a crooked grin began to creep across his face. “I suppose so,” he said. “Never thought that would happen.”

“Never thought a lot of things would happen, good and bad,” Rhavaniel murmured. “They still happened. But I’m impressed. It took you weeks to even barely trust Elladan and Elrohir.” She aimed to hit his shoulder, but missed and haphazardly patted his neck. Belhadron snorted in amusement. “I mean it, though,” she said. “You really would think it would be the spy captain who has trust issues, not you. It’s nice to see you getting over yourself.”

Belhadron laughed, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “I try,” he replied. “How do you do it, though? How could you even think of trusting him, in the beginning?”

Rhavaniel tried to shrug lying down, and gave up fairly quickly. “It is my job to know who people are,” she murmured. “I have my contacts. I knew Bard before I even met him, and so I knew what he was like, what he could do. If I walked into something like that blind, I think I would have trust issues as well, as least until I learnt who he was.” Belhadron nodded. Sometimes he underestimated the extent of Rhavaniel’s network, forgot that she had people pretty much everywhere she needed them to be.

A muffled hiss of pain had him turning back to Rhavaniel. “You’ve got a fever,” he muttered, pressing his hand to her forehead again. “Just a slight one, but it’s there nonetheless.” Rhavaniel grimaced.

“I am very aware of that, thank you,” she murmured, twisting again on the small cot. Belhadron smoothed back the limp hair from her forehead.

“Do that again, I’ll break your fingers,” Rhavaniel muttered with a weak glare. Belhadron huffed a laugh.

“You know I meant what I said,” he said. “You only need one hand to wield a knife. It’s been done before. We’re going to do everything possible to make sure you don’t have to step down. Honestly, if you did the entire realm might fall apart.” Rhavaniel laughed softly.

“You’re exaggerating,” she said softly. “Only our defences, maybe. I have nothing to do with our trade relations.” She moved restlessly again and then a soft moan slipped through her lips as pain clawed at her arm. Belhadron offered her his hand and she grabbed hold of it, waiting for the pain to subside enough for her to cope.

Eventually Rhavaniel sighed, the air hissing out through clenched teeth. She relaxed her grip on Belhadron’s hand. He took it back, gently massaging his fingers to try and get the blood back into his hand. “Don’t worry,” he said when she looked over. “I still have all my fingers.”

Rhavaniel grinned weakly. “For now,” she replied. “Can’t…I can’t promise anything if you surprise me.” She levelled him with an attempt at a glare. “Don’t take my knife, though.”

“Wasn’t even thinking of it,” Belhadron protested, raising his hands. His face softened. “I think the rain is easing up. Try and sleep some, if you can. We’ll be home soon enough.” Rhavaniel nodded, and finally seemed to manage to settle down, Belhadron sitting quietly by the side of the bed, sharpening his ash-handled knife. She fell asleep to the sound of steel against a whetstone, and rain drumming overhead.

0-o-0-o-0

It was the early hours of the morning, and the camp and settlement beside it were both quiet, the only movement the flickering of fires in the chill winter breeze scudding off the lake. Elven guards steadily paced around the perimeter, watching the darkness and waiting for it to move, but the night remained still.

Thranduil flicked back the flap of his tent and looked outside for a moment. “It’s stopped raining,” he murmured. “Hopefully the ride home will be easy enough.”

Behind him Gandalf hummed in agreement. “You won’t have much trouble with mud, I don’t think,” he replied. “Especially if it’s cold enough to freeze.” Thranduil turned back to him, sitting back down on the edge of his bed whilst Gandalf took the only chair in the tent, and idle talk flitted between the two of them for a few minutes.

Thranduil eventually trailed off, and sighed. “We’ll be leaving tomorrow,” he murmured. He looked up at Gandalf. “I don’t even know what to say about all of this. It has been a very long time since I marched to war on another land, so long I’d almost forgotten how it felt.”

“I hardly think you can compare this to the Last Alliance,” Gandalf pointed out. “And you don’t have to say anything at all. You of all people should know there’s no easy way to sum everything up.”

Thranduil huffed a laugh. “I know,” he replied. He ran his hands through his hair. “You know, Mithrandir,” he said. “And I am only going to say this once, but perhaps you were maybe right, in one instance at least.”

Gandalf raised one eyebrow. “Really?” he asked, sounding more delighted than perhaps he should. “Which instance was this?”

“I have not seen enough,” Thranduil replied with a hint of a smile on his face. “I have been in my realm for too long, I think, and I have lost sight of the world beyond it.” He shifted, pulling his cloak off his shoulders and letting it fall haphazardly on the bed. “I spoke to Thorin Oakenshield, before his death,” he said. “He told me that we’d both been careless, and lost something of ourselves without even realising. He said that there needed to be some kindness in the world, even if the two of us were too old and weary for that. Somehow, I am inclined to agree with him.”

“As am I,” Gandalf said gravely. He hesitated, waiting to see if Thranduil had more to say. Thranduil looked up with a slight smirk, and pushed his long hair away from his face again.

“Waiting for more, Mithrandir?” he asked. Gandalf laughed, inclining his head, and Thranduil obliged.

“You and I both know that we are coming to the end of it all,” he said. “Another eighty years, perhaps? I cannot tell precisely, but I’m sure you can feel the storm clouds are beginning to gather.”

Gandalf nodded. “We’ll come to it soon enough,” he replied. “Eighty years is as good a guess as any, though I would say it may come sooner than even that. I do not know precisely when, but Sauron will be challenged soon, and the great battle of this Age will begin.”

“I know what you would ask of me when this comes to pass,” Thranduil said. “A week or so ago, I told you that I could not give you what you sought, that I was out of choices. I think, perhaps, that I was wrong.”

Gandalf raised one eyebrow, but remained silent. Thranduil huffed the barest of laughs. “What Master Baggins said was true,” he said. “I still have choices that I can make, even if they seem small to someone as old as me. But then I suppose that Master Baggins himself is an excellent example of the difference small choices can make.”

“What I mean to say, Mithrandir,” said Thranduil. “Is that when the time comes for it, I will help how I can.” Gandalf made to speak, and he quickly held up one hand. “I cannot promise you an army. I will never promise you that. My responsibility is to my realm, above all else.” Gandalf levelled a look at him, and he chuckled. “Almost above all else,” he amended. “But I will not sit idly by, thinking I am trapped by not having any choices.”

He hesitated. “One more thing,” he said. Gandalf quirked an eyebrow, and despite himself he smiled slightly at the sight. Thranduil leant back with a sigh, looking for all the world like he was bored. Only because Gandalf knew him so well, could he see the tension taut within him, the worry over what was to come.

“Legolas,” Thranduil said eventually. “When the time comes, when the clouds are threatening to burst…” He sighed again. “I promise you, Mithrandir, that if his heart bids him to look beyond our realm, to seek an ultimate end to this battle, then I will not stop him.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I have always thought that Legolas has a good heart, much greater than my own. Sometimes I think it is too much, that he is too quick to mercy. But perhaps Thorin Oakenshield was right. Perhaps I should not have been so careless with myself. Perhaps kindness, that of Master Baggins, of my own son, is of greater value than I sometimes realise.”

“Old friend,” Gandalf said, sounding surprised. “You are more right that you may even realise. I will hold you to your promise, if I need to. I think that Legolas will be more important in this fight than anyone realises. Besides,” he huffed. “The finest archer in perhaps all of Arda is nothing to turn down.”

Thranduil laughed. “I was wrong,” he said. “I was wrong to despair, Mithrandir, and wrong to think that I had no choices left.” He smiled crookedly. “Savour the moment, old friend. I won’t be admitting something like that again.”

Gandalf let out a rough bark of laughter. “I will treasure the words,” he replied with a grin. “But I am glad to see that you have not conceded even an inch of defeat.”

Thranduil looked at him sharply. “As if I ever could,” he replied. “We will heal,” he said, and it sounded like a promise and a declaration at the same time. “We have come back from worse, and we will come back from this, all of us. And we will face whatever is to come next. After all,” he said, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “How can we do anything else?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that last part with Thranduil's promise is a blatant set-up for Lord of the Rings, and one of the reasons why (in this story/universe) Thranduil lets Legolas go to Rivendell and on the Quest.  
> Last chapter will be up on Wednesday. Comments and kudos are always very welcome.


	29. Not So Difficult To Find

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the final chapter. Thank you so much to everyone who has left kudos or commented- you make my day. There will be a sequel of sorts to this- a series of oneshots that follow up this story, but due to exams, I don't have much time to write at the moment, so it might take a while for some of them to get written.
> 
> Again, thank you so much for all the wonderful responses. I'll see you soon.

The dawn came slowly from the East, the Sun gradually pulling itself up over Erebor in the distance to spill across the lake, long shadows falling from the camp on its shore. Already the elves were moving, beginning to dismantle the camp and pack once more. They were going home.

Bard stood on the edge of the camp, watching the sunlight as the ripples in the lake caught it and fractured it, sending the lake aflame with the dawn. There was the soft sound of footsteps behind him, and he turned to see Legolas and Belhadron walking towards the lake, talking softly. When they saw him they turned and came to his side.

"It's quite a view," Legolas murmured, a small smile gracing his lips.

"It's not usually as good as this," Bard replied. "You haven't seen it when storms are battering us. Though there's some beauty in the wildness, I suppose. I've never stopped to look."

They were silent for a few moments, watching the lake. Eventually Bard blew out a long breath. "Thank you," he said. "For everything you have done. We are indebted to you."

Belhadron laughed softly. "You killed Smaug," he said with the beginnings of a smirk as he looked over at Bard. "You made East much more safe-"

"Safer," interjected Legolas with a smile of his own. "But that is true. You slew Smaug, you brought together your people and fought with us against a threat that could have destroyed you, destroyed us all. Then we won, and now there is a strong alliance between all the Free Peoples in the east. We don't really owe you anything."

Bard inclined his head. "I can argue the semantics of that as much as I like, I'm not going to change your minds much, am I?" he asked. "Never mind." He looked out across the lake again.

"I have one question for you," he said softly, addressing them both. "I can't even imagine what it must be like to do this, to fight, for as long as you both have. I think I'm starting to see why I would not want an immortal life. But how do you cope? How do you see all of that for centuries on end with no finishing moment in sight? How does it not drive you mad?"

There was silence for a moment, and Bard found himself unable to look away from the lake.

"We have faith."

It was Belhadron who had spoken, to his surprise. Bard glanced over at him.

"In what?" he asked softly. "Your gods, or fate?"

"No, not these things," Belhadron replied, sounding almost amused. Bard frowned.

"Then what?"

Belhadron sighed, and then turned to Legolas and began to speak softly in their own tongue. Legolas listened, bowing his head slightly, and then began to translate Belhadron's words for Bard.

"We have faith in the end. We know an end will eventually come, even if we are not alive to see it, which is honestly likely enough given what we do," he translated, a small smile coming across his face. "We have faith that if we die, another will step over us to keep on fighting, that we will not let each other give in before we do eventually fall. The world continues, no matter whether our feet still tread on it, or our blood spilled upon it instead." Legolas laughed softly as Belhadron trailed off. "Faith is not such a hard thing to find, if only you know where to look."

They fell silent, Bard turning the words over in his mind. He smiled, huffing a soft laugh as he watched the waters ripple across the lake. "You may be right," he said. "You may very well be right."

He stuck his hands in his pockets and tore his eyes from the horizon. "I must go," he said. "There is still much that needs doing. Thank you. Again." He held up one hand as Legolas went to speak. "Just take it," he said with a grin. "Thank you."

Legolas paused, and then nodded, smiling. Belhadron held out one hand and he clasped his arm, before clasping Legolas' in farewell. "Until the next time we meet, Bowman," Legolas said. Belhadron nodded, and Bard bowed slightly to both of them, before turning and walking away.

He went back to the tent he'd set up as his own for now. Within it was some of the treasure of Erebor, a small portion that he'd kept for himself as Girion's heir. The rest had gone into a separate building, guarded by men Bard trusted. He wouldn't let the Master get his greedy hands on it, not when so many had died before he'd brought it home.

He opened one of the two chests and pulled something out, settling it in another, smaller, box. That done, Bard went to gather some of his men and find Thranduil.

He found the Elvenking in the middle of the camp, elves arrayed around him as he issued orders. The men he'd brought followed him as he stepped forwards to Thranduil. Gandalf was with him, as was Bilbo, and Bard smiled at the halfling as he saw him.

"My Lord," he said, bowing his head. Thranduil turned to him.

"Bard," he said in greetings. They talked together for a few minutes, discussing the next movements, the next choices to come, and Bard felt himself becoming more and more certain of the decision he'd made crouched beside a dead orc, that last time he'd looked on the graves and pyres of the fallen.

"Send word," Thranduil said. "If you need anything of us."

Bard nodded. "I will," he replied. "I hardly doubt that everything from here will be easy, nor will I always know what to do, but we will come back. I will make sure of it."

Thranduil found himself smiling. "That is good to hear," he said. "Keep an eye on that Master. I do not think he will hand over power without some sort of fight. At the very least, he must have his eye on the gold you brought back."

"Of course he will," Bard muttered. "But who says I am going to take any power?" Thranduil raised one eyebrow, and Bard grinned wryly. "What gave it away?"

"Everything," Thranduil replied. "You've been reminding me of Girion for the past week or so. And I have seen that look before. You will not step back, not now."

Bard inclined his head. "No, I do not think that I can," he said. "I do not think I want to. These people need someone to lead them, and after everything I could not trust someone else to do it." He sighed softly, gaze searching the settlement around them.

"It won't be easy," Thranduil warned. "Leading never is. Stick to your morals, but be prepared to compromise in situations where there isn't a right answer. Find some trusted people you can confide in, and don't underestimate the importance of people who know how to write trade agreements and deal with money. You'll make enemies. You've probably already made one of the Master, but try and win around any of his people and allies, however you can. You can't trust any of them, not for a while, but it will make the Master easier to deal with."

Bard nodded. "I already have everyone who went to Erebor on my side, along with many people here. The circle of friends around the Master is growing smaller. The types of people around him are the ones who have no problem changing sides to suit their own fortunes, for the most part. But there are others who the Master has reduced to nothing, because they did not agree with him." He shrugged. "I think I can trust them."

"Good," murmured Thranduil as he saw Bard's mind begin to work, begin to think about the countless next steps that needed to be taken. Bard looked up.

"I almost forgot," he said. He held out the small box in his hands. "As a token of my thanks for everything that you and your people have done for us."

Thranduil took the box and opened it. The small frown on his face deepened. "The emeralds of Girion," he said slowly. "The jewels that are rightfully yours. Why, out of everything, do you give them to me?"

Bard huffed a laugh. "Think of them as a pledge. They are my birthright, and I value them greatly. If they are in your hands, perhaps I am more likely to fulfil my promise, my payment to you for your aid. Besides, I could do no less for those who gave their lives for the rest of us." He looked down at the box, at the emeralds nestled within. "They can be a coronation gift once Dale is rebuilt."

Thranduil laughed, and closed the box. "You are Girion's heir indeed," he replied with a smile. "I will keep them safe until you are crowned King."

Bard bowed his head. "Again, I cannot thank you enough, for everything you and your people have done. Without you, we would have surely died."

Thranduil shook his head. "Despite the reputation that I have, I could not have turned aside from your people's plight," he replied. "And I am glad that I did not. As Mithrandir has reminded me often, we have actually done a great thing here. Those who gave their lives did not do so in vain."

"It will take a while to remember that, I think," Bard said.

"There was something a friend once said to me, a very long time ago," Thranduil murmured. "Congratulations. You have won the war. Now live with it." He laughed softly. "How fitting."

"But at least we won," Bard said quietly. He smiled slightly. "Give us a few years. We'll come back. Dale will come back. I won't let anything less happen."

Thranduil smiled, and Bard found himself wondering when he'd dropped the mask of the formidable King that he'd seen for so long. "I say that you remind me of Girion, but in all honesty, you have surpassed him. You are a better man than he was, Bard."

Bard grinned. "We shall see," he replied. He laughed, the sound rough in his throat. "It seems like a long time ago that I told you I could not do this. I think now that I was wrong. I will wear the title proudly, when it is given, for all those we've lost because of this." He looked around him, at the people who'd he suddenly become responsible for without even realising until he'd stopped and looked back.

Thranduil nodded. "Well said, Bowman," he said, and for perhaps the first time Bard felt that the title was right, that he could wear it.

He wasn't going to take his rightful place as King because Thranduil had asked it of him, nor because everyone else expected him to do it, because of the blood in his veins. He was going to do it because he owed it to the dead, because they demanded it of him with the lives they'd given up, and because he didn't think he trusted anyone else to pull them back from the edge of ruin that they'd found themselves on.

He knew the dead would still haunt his dreams for a long time to come. He knew it would not be easy. But perhaps there was a faith that he had not seen before, something he'd overlooked. And he knew that he had been on this path ever since he'd picked up his bow to defend his home from something so much bigger than all of them.

He could not step away now. He didn't want to step away now. The weight of what was still to come settled on him, but it fitted him, and he knew now that he would bear it.

0-o-0-o-0

For a few moments there was silence. The two elves walked down to the shore together, watching the water ripple and burn in the morning light. Belhadron stooped, and picked up a handful of stones from the shore. He picked one out and threw it, the pebble arcing up into the air before disappearing into the depths of the lake.

Legolas reached out and took one of the stones from his hand. He rubbed it between his fingers for a moment, before throwing it as far as he could out across the lake, watching the stone until it vanished beneath the burnished water.

Legolas dropped his hand and stood still, watching the water where the stone had vanished. "Do you ever wonder whether the sea looks like this?" he asked softly.

Belhadron looked over at him. "No," he replied. "I don't." He paced up and down the shore, looking for the right stone. Legolas watched him as he crouched and picked one up, smoothing a thumb over the flat surface. He stood and with a practised throw, sent the stone skipping across the surface of the lake.

He cleared his throat. "I think I'm going to ride north with Rhavaniel once we get back home, as soon as the healers let her go and we have things under control. We'll stop by my parent's settlement so I can reassure them that I'm still alive, leave before they become too resentful and bring up Amdar again, and go further west to Rhavaniel's family. We'll stay there for a few weeks, I think. Whatever Rhavaniel wants to do."

Legolas nodded. "It'll be good for her," he said. "To get out of the stronghold. Probably do you some good as well. Her family has always liked you."

Belhadron nodded, and stooped to pick up another few stones, thin flat ones that would skip over the water. He handed one to Legolas, and flung another out across the lake again, watching it skip before it finally sank, far out into the deep waters.

"Tell me we can come back from this," he finally said. "Tell me we can go on."

Legolas looked over at him. "We've come back every single time before," he said softly. "Every time we've had everything thrown at us, everything try to stop us, and yet here we stand." He smiled slightly. "We'll go on. What else can we do?"

Belhadron laughed softly. "True," he replied. He threw another stone out across the lake and watched it skip. "Very true."

Legolas walked over to him and they stood there for a few moments, just standing side by side. They were alive. They were still fighting. It would be enough.

There came the sound of scattering pebbles behind them. They turned to see Bilbo skidding as he tried to regain his footing down the slope to the shore. He jumped and managed to come to a stop, before walking towards the two of them.

"Gandalf asked me to fetch you," he said. "I think we might be leaving in an hour or so."

Belhadron nodded. "I'll go see what it is," he said. His hand found Legolas' shoulder for a few seconds and he smiled softly at his friend, before he turned and, with a nod at Bilbo, walked back up the slope to their rapidly disappearing camp.

Legolas watched him go, and then turned back to the lake. He flipped the flat stone in his hand, again and again. Bilbo watched him, the lone figure silhouetted against the morning sun, the entire lake glowing gold in the dawn before him.

"I won't forget it!" he cried out suddenly. "Any of it. The good, the bad, I'll remember it all. I promise."

Legolas stilled. His hand fell to his side, fingers curling around the stone he had been about to throw. He looked back up at Bilbo. "A heavy burden," he said. "For one so small."

"I'll write it down," Bilbo replied. "All of it. So it won't be forgotten."

Legolas smiled wearily. "All things are forgotten in the end," he said. "But thank you. I am glad we will be remembered."

He climbed up the slope from the shores of the lake until he was just below Bilbo. "Will you do something for me?" he asked.

Bilbo nodded, and Legolas smiled softly. "When you go back to your Shire," he said. "To your books and garden. Will you…" He trailed off, the words hard to find.

"Will you write down the song we taught you?" he finally asked. "The stories we told you, all of our tales and history. Our laments, and what it sounded like when we sang. Write it all down, if you want to. Perhaps if you, child of the kindly West, perhaps if you also remember, then it may be harder for us to forget it ourselves."

Bilbo nodded. He wasn't sure when he had started crying, only that the tear tracks were cold on his cheeks as the breeze caught them. "I will."

"Thank you." Legolas walked up and past him. A few steps beyond Bilbo he turned back, and paused.

"The world may be broken," he said quietly. "Perhaps beyond repair. But hope, or faith, I might call it… that is not such a hard thing to find." He smiled softly, his gaze falling distant across the lake. The burnished waters rippled gently in a winter's breeze, and then he turned away.

Bilbo watched his retreating figure for a while, until he disappeared from view. His gaze then drew slowly to the west, out across the grey plains to the dark boughs of the woods, beyond them to mountains and caves, and then finally to green meadows, trees long known, and smoke rising from a familiar chimney. He laughed softly to himself, tear tracks drying on his cheeks.

No, faith was not so hard to find. Not if you were looking for something to believe in. And with that thought, he turned and began the long journey home.

_finis_


End file.
